


The Short Stories Collection

by Jen (ConsultingWriters)



Series: Prompt Fills [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Inception (2010), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bondlock, Cat!Q, Fluff, Humour, M/M, More stuff than I can tag, Other, Please check for each fill, Prompt Fill, Vampires, crossovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 182
Words: 274,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriters/pseuds/Jen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to popular demand: My tumblr fills, now moved onto AO3!</p><p>This collection pertains to all fills that have multiple parts; they have been placed together for coherency. They span fandoms, crossovers et cetera, in a variety of contexts. Some are still works in progress, and I will add more to the end of some from time to time.</p><p>More fills can be found through the rest of my 'Prompt Fill' series. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tempest fills

**Author's Note:**

> http://consultingwriters.tumblr.com/ - This is the guilty tumblr. These fills are all mine (Jen) unless otherwise stated. Feel free to have a glance, and throw more prompts at me.
> 
> My 00Q prompts, NSFW prompts, Sherlock prompts, and Bondlock prompts, can all be found in the rest of the series. I had to differenciate, or I'd lose track of what I'm doing!
> 
> Please see each fill for warnings. I have almost certainly forgotten to write in some warnings, in the melee. Please don't throw things at me, just remind me, and I'll pop them up.
> 
> OH, and I also managed to title each chapter. Mainly because some _are_ going to be added to, and thus I'd like to be able to find them again.
> 
> Thank you kindly to everybody, especially those who have been supporting ConsultingWriters on tumblr, you guys are wonderful. Jen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love your Skyfall/The Tempest crossover! I'm a Shakespeare lover myself. I like the idea of this crossover so much that I have prompt I know you will enjoy, and it's a Skyfall/The Tempest crossover! Its were Ariel(Q) falls in love with one of King Alonso's guards (James Bond) that made it to the island too but is alone. It's because of this is why he keeps pestering Prospera for his freedom. - anon

“My liberty,” Ariel murmurs reticently; his master cannot help but ask why, why now, why with such intent.

Ariel closes his eyes, can see the face. The weathered man with eyes like frozen water, a voice that stops air itself in its boundless gravity; the face will not leave him, the presence of this man more acute than anything Ariel has known before.

“My potent Master,” Ariel breathes, his soul in the skies. “I have served you well.”

Prospero agrees willingly with that statement; his wandering spirit cannot be retained indefinitely. He, too, can conjure the image; a man of Alonso’s guards, a subject of his enemy. He is a tangible entity, against Ariel’s transparent existence.

“You cannot love a mortal,” Prospero tells him, counselling the young spirit; his body bends towards the conjured face, expression yearning for a syllable from the mortal that has captured him quite entirely.

Ariel is not of this world, nor a neighbouring world. He is something removed entirely, and he cannot bind himself to humanity. “Speak with him,” Prospero grants. “We will further discuss your freedom then.”

The being is vanished.

He finds the man in a heartbeat, appeared to him alone. His gaze speaks of mistrust, and something like cynicism. “Your ship was lost,” Ariel says simply, watching the man so closely. “I reside here, I can help you.”

“And who exactly are you?” Bond asked in a perfectly gravelled voice, his inflexion far removed from the norms of their island. The thing in front of him is young, absurdly beautiful in a breakable type of way. There is something odd about him that Bond can’t define.

“I…” the boy, the young man, hesitates. “Ariel. I am Ariel.”

“Bond, James Bond,” the man responds. Ariel’s smile is starlight, and Bond can feel something, some draw. He wants to learn more, see more. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ariel.”

\---

Ariel leads James Bond through the undergrowth of their island, sensing the convoluted promises of darker trees and darker creatures, revelling in the company of this beautiful man.

He looked like he has lived almost as long as Ariel has now, with experience and honesty that is never found on the faces of mortal men. Ariel helps Bond trip through shadows, finding places to rest and to eat, and slowly, very slowly, Bond grows to trust him.

It is not difficult, to remain corporeal. It is harder to pretend he doesn’t seek more, however, that his body doesn’t bend towards air like a bow, aiming him inexorably towards the stars.

He skirts perfectly around questions as to his lineage, and diverts the questions onto Bond himself; he discovers fragments of his past, revels in the information that topples from him like water, James’s stories, all his now.

Ariel points out the mountains, all cloud-capped, and Bond asks who he is, finally.

“I am such stuff as dreams are made on,” Ariel replies lightly, laughing at Bond’s expression. He cannot lie; Bond knows he is not of human origin, his confusion growing in tandem with inadvertent trust. “A spirit, James. I am a spirit of air. I can become tangible, and I wish to remain as such.”

Bond takes a moment, blinks, considers. “It’s a brave new world out there,” he replies looking Ariel up and down. “I suppose you could fit in quite perfectly.”

He moves in a heartbeat, and is kissing Bond. He has never kissed another person in his life, and certainly never a mortal. He has never been so close to a mortal like Bond, all strength and breathtaking elegance. He can speak in the twitch of muscle, and his words can contain vacuous silence.

“Take me with you, when you go,” Ariel murmurs to him; there is freedom, so much freedom, and he wants it. Wants to taste the world, with James.

“Yes,” Bond replies, tracing the almost-truth of Ariel skin with a long finger, as though trying to see the spirit beneath. One day perhaps, Ariel will show him. Not yet, however. Not today.

Instead, they kiss like water touching, and do not consider further problems.

\---

Freedom is dizzying.

The thought that returns, again and again, is that there is so much world to see. The beauty of the world, a perfectly formed and infinite space, where he can vanish into crowds of more people than he knew existed, yet still be everything, still be the king of that infinite space, to James.

Love is intoxicating.

Ariel feels he could be almost human, almost a man; Sycorax, forever ago, made him nothing. Drained him of all he was, made him a walking shadow. Now, he bears a charmed life, so in the sun, basking in the man who gave him freedom, gave him love where he didn’t seek it, where he had only hoped for companionship, barely daring to imagine he would be _loved_.

“Are you sure?” Bond asks quietly, snapping Ariel out of his reverie; the spirit looks at him, almost confused. “This has always been your home, and I don’t have the right to take you away. I’m not a steady companion, you know, I could put you in danger, Italy is a large place…”

“I would not wish any companion in the world but you,” Ariel said, with breathtaking honesty.

“Please don’t fall in love with me,” Bond told him gently, cupping the young man’s face in his hands. Ariel’s mouth twitched in a smile, and he kissed Bond lightly, so corporeal, yet somehow untouchable. Bond cannot lose the sense that he could fly away at any second, rip himself away from Bond’s life and find himself elsewhere.

“Too late, my James,” Ariel breathed. “Do you love me?”

“Never doubt it,” Bond replied, brushing further kisses to Ariels’s hands, lips sliding over the knuckles, eternity in his lips and eyes. “Ariel, I love you beyond all thought. If you wish to come, if you wish to stay with me, I won’t argue.”

“As long as I love you, the chaos stays at bay,” Ariel murmured, tracing fingers over Bond’s arms, holding him in place.

Bond folded the spirit into his arms, held him close. “To Italy,” the man murmured. Ariel nodded, ethereal, beautiful. Freedom.

It was dizzying.


	2. The Cat!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of fills with Q as a cat - and also, the entire Holmes family as cats. Yes, you read that correctly.

The ears retracted, thankfully. The tail was just a pain in the rear, often quite literally.

Nobody in MI6, barring M himself – who had to be briefed for security reasons – knew of his mutation. He, thus far, hadn’t broached the subject with James. The pair of them were quiet, mostly nonsexual ironically, and Q was reticent about sexual contact to a ridiculous degree.

“James,” he murmured against Bond’s lips, the pair of them breathing each other. “James, I need to show you something.”

Bond pulled back, raised an eyebrow. Q sounded nervous, which was very usual for him; his veneer of sarcasm and irritability had faded back into an almost childish naivety. “What?” Bond asked, voice almost dangerous.

“I’m…” Q took a breath, leaning away from Bond. “I’m scared, Bond. You won’t deal with this well, I know you won’t, and I just… do you…”

“I love you, Q, but I could really do with knowing what in the hell is going on,” Bond said, a little tensely. Q’s forehead knotted, Bond kissing him gently across the creases, trying to coax him to relax.

Q closed his eyes, and relaxed. Keeping the ears retracted took a great deal of effort. It had become easier over the years, but it was far from a natural or easy thing to do. Letting them emerge was a simple case of letting go.

Q almost wanted to cry, keeping himself carefully controlled. Bond didn’t speak, Q’s eyes were tightly closed, nobody moved.

Q felt warmth caress his ears, teasing along the soft downy fur. He hiccupped slightly, as Bond stroked down his side, moving to tentatively touch the tail he knew was there. Bond breathed, exhaled.

He kissed Q deeply, shifting his waistband to let the tail swish out, flicking back and forth lightly. “You’re beautiful,” Bond told him simply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you’d… I…”

Bond kissed him again, ruffling the ears, making Q purr inadvertently. He blushed. “You purr?” Bond asked, narrowly suppressing a smirk.

“Fuck off,” Q replied without venom, grinning, falling into another kiss as his tail flicked back and forth, curling around Bond’s thigh and tugging him closer, never letting him go.

\---

Bond became very quickly accustomed to the fact that Q was, at least in part, feline. The entire affair danced on being endearing, with a notable understanding that Q quite definitely had claws when he wanted.

Bond was particularly enamoured with Q’s tail. Q evidently had traits of a long-hair; the tail was absurdly fluffy, black with dark-grey dapples. Despite having no fur on his back, or indeed most places elsewhere, Q seemed to take great joy in bring stroked from the nape of neck, down to the tip of his tail. He arched his back accordingly, and yes – although Bond was absolutely not allowed to make fun – he did purr from time to time.

Q snuggled into Bond’s lap and chest on a regular basis, his tail flicking contentedly. Bond stroked along the ridges of his back, rubbing a thumb over the base of his spine, where the tail began.

Q gave a sudden moan.

Bond moved his hand, Q opened his eyes, and both glanced at one another in vague alarm. “I…”

Bond experimentally rubbed again, Q’s body flush against his; Q’s cheeks flushed incrementally, lips falling very slightly open, nuzzling against Bond’s shoulder instinctively.

Q hummed in contentment as Bond lavished attention on the base of his tail, fingers trailing to his lower back, down along the length of his tail; the tail swished in pleasure Q couldn’t even attempt to hide.

It felt like a massage, the sigh of contentment as tension is relieved. Bond’s touches made him shudder slightly, the act intimate without being sexual, tension draining from him and leaving him to kiss Bond’s neck lightly, trying to reciprocate the kind of feeling it was inspiring, the comfort and warmth and intimacy combined.

Q’s claws pulled at Bond’s hair, and he shifted Q’s weight, contorting to place a kiss against the sensitised area. Q’s purring had reached the point of mild obscenity, his back arcing, archetypically feline, before falling into a contented puddle in Bond’s lap.

“I appear to have found your one weakness,” Bond murmured in Q’s ear. Q, in response, decided to paw his thighs without retracting his claws, another feline trait of sheer bliss.

Bond sighed. He probably deserved that.

\---

Bond’s favourite discovery in his _entire life_ was that Q had several cat traits that were a little less predictable. To cut down a long story, Bond discovered that Q – like most felines – was utterly helpless in the face of The Laser Pointer.

“You bastard,” Q spat at him, as he dived head-first at the wall. “Bond, this is _entirely illogical_ , I _know_ what it is, but I just, I… Bond, _Bond, stop it!_ ”

Bond was literally rolling with laughter, darting the laser pointer at Q’s bedroom wall, and watching the fully-grown man dive at it with a need that was palpable, and immediate.

To give him credit, Q was very flexible, and very athletic. His back legs were stronger than Bond had previously given him credit for, as he launched himself closer and closer to the ceiling.

“I _swear_ , I will make your life hell,” Q promised, whining as he pawed at the wall, trying to catch something that he _knew_ couldn’t be caught. It was a light, he was trying to catch the light, but by _god_ the fucking thing was _mocking him_.

“Q, you don’t _have_ to chase it.”

“It’s a biological imperative! Humans do it too, they focus on motion and light, and for cats it’s more acute, it’s… it’s… or at least keep it still, I need, I… please, Bond, _oh my god_ ,” he shrieked, barrelling into a desk.

“Q, _Q_ , are you alright?!”

Q gave a feral, livid snarl. Bond’s eyes widened, as Q literally _flew_ at him, tail and fur and claws leaping in his direction. He had enough time to swear, before Q was on top of him, clawing, ripping the laser pointer out of his hands and throwing it across the room, scratches imbedded in his arms.

Okay. Fair enough. He definitely did deserve that.

\---

Bond had grown rather used to Q’s little habits; he stroked Q’s ears carefully, knew exactly where to tickle to make Q purr wildly. “Are there more of you?” James asked one evening. Q had explained the ‘family tendency’, as he called it; Bond couldn’t help but wonder about the further parameters, however. “Or is it a family thing?”

“We are a subspecies, there are about a million of us worldwide,” Q explained, draped over Bond’s lap with no compunctions whatsoever. Bond was rather used to it by now. Q sighed, rolling over, looking up at Bond. “Go on, ask.”

“Does it hurt? Hiding them?”

Q gave a slight, wry smile. “It is uncomfortable, yes, but not actively painful. Bond… there is something you should be aware of.

Bond’s expression froze where it was. “Oh?” he asked, staying calm, collected. Q sat up, legs still over Bond’s, sitting on him, arms wrapped around him; a certain advantage of Q having confessed to his feline nature was that he had no issues at all with physical contact any longer. He spent most of his time, when he was able, draping over Bond happily.

“I require several days per month for my feline side to become more dominant,” Q said in a quick rush. Bond’s expression was still scarily fixed. “It’s not… I don’t turn into a cat, I just… Two parts of my brain are at war. I’m usually fully human, and the more I restrain it… I have to take myself away, and allow myself to remain feline.”

Bond gave a slow, whistling exhale. “Okay. So how dominant _does_ your ‘feline side’ become, exactly?”

“It becomes primary. Cats have certain… needs,” Q said, as delicately as he could possibly manage.

“Where do you go?”

“I spend a handful of days with Mycroft and Sherlock, usually at Mycroft’s house,” Q explained deftly, skirting around any less palatable issues.

“And the three of you… What do you…?”

“I beg you, stop asking,” Q blurting out quickly. “I’m due in a couple of days, actually.”

“Due? What are you due, exactly?!”

Q waved his hands about, in a way he really hoped Bond would just understand, magically if necessary. “I just become very… docile. Vulnerable. It would be best if you did not experience it.”

“I don’t know, sounds like it could be fun,” Bond said, grinning wildly.

“ _No_ , Bond.”

“What, and your brothers can?” Bond asked, feeling a little offended; he wasn’t going to be unnecessary, or unkind.

“They understand,” Q told him worriedly; he abruptly smirked. “Besides, if they take advantage of me I can simply mock them when it’s their turn.”

Bond smiled, despite himself. “Seems fair. So you go over there to… ‘cat out’, once a month?”

“Think of it as my holiday. Now can we _please_ drop it?”

“Fine, fine,” Bond grinned. He was still grinning, making Q’s eyes narrow suspiciously, even as he continued to stroke Q’s ears.

“What is it, Bond?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s fine. It’s quite sweet, honestly,” Bond said, that absurd grin still plastered over his face.

“I am not _sweet_ , Bond,” Q told him.

“If you say so,” Bond muttered. There was a small moment of blissful silence, wherein Q hoped against hope that Bond had decided to just damn well _drop the subject_. “You know, you would be welcome to stay here around your… time of the month.”

“Dear _god_ Bond, I don’t have a period!”

Bond was trying, he really was. “What shall I call it then?”

“Call it, I don’t know, downtime,” Q pleaded wearily, wondering why he had decided to tell Bond in the first place. Bad plan,  _very_ bad plan. Better to lie and run away. He’d remember that for next time.

“Fine – during your ‘downtime’, you would be welcome to stay here,” Bond repeated. Q shuffled off him, the ears retracting, blushing very slightly. Bond could read Q oddly easily these days; he looked uncomfortable, bizarrely so.

“Thank you. However, I really think it would be best if I remain with my brothers for now,” Q told him, blushing slightly. Bond shrugged slightly. But… thank you,” Q managed eventually, with a thin smile. “I will consider it.”

\---

“Must we do this every year?” Sherlock groaned, as he attempted to straighten his bow tie.

“ _Tradition_ , Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, slicking down his own hair around neat, ginger ears. His suit cut in neatly around the tail, allowing it to flick properly. Mummy insisted on them being ‘themselves’ while around her, which in essence, meant that they needed to have specialist suits ready for dinners with her. Most suits didn’t accommodate tails.

Q leant over his elder brothers in an attempt to gain access to the mirror, and very nearly got elbowed out altogether; he was the least comfortable, and obviously so. He had always hated the dinners; being forced to be catlike was irritating, at best. He only stayed catlike around Bond to avoid his biology snapping back at him; if he suppressed it too long, the instincts became overwhelming.

“Get that out of my face,” Q snapped, as Sherlock’s fluffy tail flicked against his nose. He swore slightly, trying to deal with his own bow tie. He hated bow ties, always had done.

“Sherlock, your hair is everywhere,” Mycroft sighed, yanking Sherlock to one side and assessing the damage; he was completely _useless_ at making himself look faintly presentable.

“Get off me,” Sherlock snarled, trying to shrug him off. Mycroft sighed, licking his finger and trying to flatten Sherlock’s errant eyebrows. This only had the effect of making Sherlock hiss angrily, claws threatening to tear through his expensive tuxedo.

The two were swiftly engaged in an all out fight, pawing at each other, hackles raised. In the end, Mycroft won – as per usual – and grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck. This served to anaesthetise the man; Sherlock gave a mild, mewing noise, and sagged across Mycroft’s body. Mycroft smiled to himself, stroking fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“Are you two finished?” Q asked, having taken advantage of their distraction to commandeer the mirror. Mycroft had moved the pair of them backwards; Sherlock was, by now, nearly fully curled on his lap, purring like a steam train.

“I believe so,” Mycroft smirked, giving a sharp tug on the tail flicking in front of him. Sherlock snapped out of the daze, glaring daggers, hissing instinctively.

“Twat,” he told Mycroft sharply.

“Quite. Now sit down and let me do your hair.”

Ten minutes, several arguments, and a lot of spit-cleaning later, the three tumbled out the room, looking a little more intact. Sherlock strutted in a way that only cats could really pull off, Mycroft looked his usual self – only with a tail – and Q looked horrendously uncomfortable. A fair assessment of the three Holmes brothers.

“Oh, don’t you boys look _wonderful_!” Mummy said charmingly, looking proudly at her three sons. “You did a wonderful job, Mickey darling.”

Mycroft blushed fiercely, as Sherlock and Q sniggered unapologetically. No one except Mummy called him that. Sherlock had tried calling him ‘Mickey’ once, and had very nearly suffered a broken jaw as a direct consequence.

“Thank you, mummy,” he nodded, reaching behind Q and Sherlock, and giving both of their tails a rather vicious tug. The boys yelped, and stopped snickering; Mycroft allowed himself a vaguely satisfied smile.

“You know, you turn out rather well when you want to,” she noted, giving Q a quick scratch. Q gave a little growl, and ducked away from her; it was enough, surely, that he was being made to show ears and tail. He didn’t need her to make any more of his feline tendencies.

She didn’t seem overly concerned; she smiled at Q kindly, and turned to the door. Her sons came close behind, towering height-wise; for some anomalous reason, the Holmes boys had all ended up nearer the six foot mark, where their mother was barely five and a half.

“Come now boys, dinner will be getting cold,” she told them, and headed downstairs without a further word.


	3. The Accidental Abuse fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and James are a couple. They had a terrible fight and James accidentally hit Q. And Q has a childhood trauma. He tries to apologize and do everything to calm his lover. hurt/comfort/angst Thank you <3 - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for domestic abuse, implied child abuse.

“No, get the _fuck_ away from me,” Q said through harsh, frantic breaths. Bond’s hand was close, trying to touch him; Q was shaking, sobbing, calming down only to relapse again whenever Bond moved.

“Q, I’m sorry,” Bond told him, more than a little confused. He had hit Q. The argument had been virulent, cruel, on both sides – and Bond had lost his temper completely, whipping around to near knock Q over with a hit to the side of the head. It had split his lip, but all other damage was nothing more then superficial.

The problem was in that Q had started almost immediately hyperventilating, muttering words under his breath, and almost screaming whenever Bond moved. “It’s… not you,” Q rasped. “I can’t… panic attack, it happens.”

“Q, breathe. In and out, regularly.”

“Fuck off, Bond,” Q moaned, letting out strange, caught whimpers, head buried in his arms and knees, tangling limbs. “I know how to deal with this… I… _shit._ ”

Bond didn’t know what had happened to inspire such a reaction. It honestly didn’t matter; he needed to talk Q back down from the ledge, as best he could, get Q back to himself, as calm as possible. “Look at me, Q,” Bond murmured gently. He didn’t reach out, didn’t touch. “Q, I’m sorry. I know it’s…”

“No, you don’t know,” Q spat, staring out at Bond with red-rimmed eyes. “You have _no idea_. There is no world on which that was acceptable, and I just… I can’t do this, Bond, I can’t.”

“It was an unintentional…”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Q shouted suddenly, wiping tears away furiously. Bond reached out again, only to have Q stare at the hand like it was a foreign animal. “I won’t stay,” he whispered. “Not now. I know you didn’t… I know, James, but I can’t trust you, and I… Go. Please. Just go.”

“Q…”

 _“Go away_ ,” Q hiccupped, shouted, sobbed at him. Bond stood shakily, framing Q’s name, hand still outstretched, trying to reach, trying to keep him. “Please,” Q whispered, and Bond turned to the door, and left.

\---

Bond came back to the flat a few hours later, to find Q curled on the sofa in a blanket, looking intensely fragile. He glanced at the door as it opened, spotting Bond.

“I asked you to go,” Q told him quietly. Bond shut the door behind him, Q’s eyes tracking him carefully. “Bond…”

“Who was it?” Bond asked, keeping his voice carefully measured. “Your reaction…”

“My father was frequently drunk. My mother didn’t care. I wasn’t masculine enough. Spent too much time in my room, reading, I didn’t… I’m sorry, the reaction was somewhat disproportionate. But I meant what I said.”

Bond settled himself on the far end of the sofa. Q was still watching him with wide, too-careful eyes. “You know that isn’t me.”

“Were you possessed? Because I’m relatively certain you were in charge of your various limbs. I didn’t manage to accidently shoot you, and believe me, I was angry too. There was no bloody excuse for it, Bond,” Q told him, never shouting. His voice remained frighteningly steady, actually. “I will not do this again. If you can’t control yourself…”

“I made a _mistake,_ Q.”

“A mistake where you hurt somebody who you profess to care about!” Q yelled back, temper suddenly breaking. There was a bruise on his cheek, and Bond just felt stabbed with guilt.

“Give me another chance,” Bond asked, feeling unpleasantly breakable. He cared for Q, so much. He didn’t want to lose him, not like this, not over something which had been such a stupid, such a ridiculous mistake.

Q buried his face in his hands. “When I left, I promised myself I would never be in a situation like this again,” he mumbled. “I promised if somebody ever hurt me again, I’d go, no questions asked.”

“Q, I…”

“I can guess. You care about me, maybe you’ll even pull out the ‘love’ card,” Q said sharply. Bond’s face was fathomless, and Q’s was inches from crumbling completely. “I… Bond, I don’t want to lose this, whatever we have, but I don’t trust you.”

“I’ll earn it back,” Bond said, without a second of hesitation. “Please, Q.”

Q closed his eyes, pulled his glasses away from his face, exhaling shakily. “Okay,” he whispered hollowly. “Okay. But I mean it, if this happens again, if anything _like_ this happens again…”

“I know,” Bond interjected, reaching out to him.

“No. No, don’t touch me,” Q said quickly. Bond looked almost confused for a moment, before withdrawing. Things had changed now. He had changed everything, and this was his fault. He honestly cared about Q, maybe even did love him. And now, Q wouldn’t let him near.

God alone knew what would happen now.

\---

“Bond, I don’t think I can do this,” Q mumbled, staring at the floor. Bond’s head snapped up to him.

“What?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t actually heard correctly. “Q, it’s been days…”

“Yes, and I still remove the somewhat consistent thought that you’re going to lose your temper again,” Q snapped, running a hand through his hair, his usual habit when agitated. “Jesus, this can’t work if I’m scared of you.”

Bond’s heart sank through his stomach. “Sorry?” he asked, voice empty, almost rasping. “You’re… you’re _scared_ of me?”

Q looked at him, and Bond knew the answer. He just knew, and Q didn’t bother to try disabusing him of that notion.

He quite suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“Q, I would never… I…”

“Yes, you would,” Q contradicted. “And you did. Bond, I care about you, I really do, but I can’t… I can’t get over this, not this.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Bond said, with a little thrum of panic. “Q, I… I care about you, and I don’t want to hurt you, I…”

“You what?” Q asked, with a peal of very unstable laughter. “This is how things like this start. You hit me, you say sorry, I forgive you. And the next time, the same thing happens, until it becomes the norm.”

“You really think I’d…”

“You did it once, I have no fucking _idea_ what to think any more,” Q shouted, fingers knotting into fists in his hair, frantic. “I never thought I’d have to have this conversation, I never thought… I mean, not you, Bond. Anybody but you.”

“I’m not that person,” Bond said carefully, absolutely certain of that fact, and Q crumpled abruptly, suddenly kneeling on the floor, hands over his head, breathing harshly.

Both of them were painfully silent.

Q lifted his head, defeat and pain and sadness written through him. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard people say that?” he asked, terrifyingly quietly. “My father, begging my mother to forgive him. Begging _me_ to forgive him, once I was old enough. People telling me that what they’re doing isn’t _them_. You know, I’ve never managed to ‘accidently’ hurt anybody. Somehow, it doesn’t occur to me to physically hurt somebody I like, or care about.”

“It doesn’t…”

“And that’s part of what scares me,” Q interjected. “It doesn’t occur to you. It happens out of, what? Instinct? Anger? Something you can’t control. And as long you can’t control it, you cannot guarantee you won’t hurt me again, and I refuse to go back to a situation where I’m at somebody else’s mercy. Not again. You can’t ask that of me.”

Bond whistled out breath. It would be an incredibly bad idea to get too upset or angry at this moment. “Is there anything I can do?” he rasped.

Q started to cry, still kneeling on the floor, head in his hands. He shook his head.

Bond’s world was collapsing around him. “Q, _please_ …”

“I don’t know what to do,” Q said through tears. Bond continued to breathe, as steadily as he was able. He stood, moving to Q’s side, bundling Q into a tight embrace, ignoring the half-hearted protests. Q let out a wrenching wail.

“I can’t do this again, I _can’t_ ,” hesobbed at Bond. “Why, why did you have to…”

“I’m sorry,” Bond told him, again and again, until his throat hurt, until he had run out of air. “I’m so sorry.”

\---

Q curled into Bond’s chest, breathing steadily. “How’re you doing?” Bond murmured lightly.

“I’m fine,” Q mumbled, trying to shut down the conversation; he didn’t want to talk any more about how it was going, how he felt about it all.

It hadn’t been a great day. Bond had a mission that went incredibly wrong; he came home to Q, and no, he didn’t take it out on Q in the slightest. He smashed a mug instead.

Q tried very hard to keep calm. He managed it for a while, Bond storming through the kitchen, swearing impressively; the anger threw Q backwards, reminded him of too many occasions, anger and pain inextricably linked.

Q utilised every self-management technique he had at his disposal. He helped Bond calm down a little, let Bond exhaust himself a little, before walking into the bathroom, and throwing up.

Not again. He wouldn’t do this again. He couldn’t let himself succumb to this again.

“Bond…” he started, heading into the living room, running a hand through his hair nervously. He didn’t want to have this conversation again.

Bond was on the sofa, terrifyingly still, head in hands. Q’s fear, upset, evaporated; Bond needed him. It was that simple, ultimately. He settled next to Bond on the sofa, waited for him to respond; eventually, Bond was able to turn to him, and held onto him.

Q stayed. Of course he stayed. He had nowhere else to go, after all, and Bond needed him. Bond needed him, and loved him, and this was who he was; the anger, the passion, the spark. Q loved him for that. It was the first thing he’d seen.

“How’re you doing?” Bond murmured, and Q told him he was fine. It was fine, of course it was fine, it had to be fine.

Days continued to pass; and if Bond’s hands were a shadow too tight, if the sex was a little too rough, if Bond didn’t listen to him once in a while, if half the crockery was smashed in a matter of days, maybe he would pretend not to notice.


	4. The Wing fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to prompt you! Wing!00Q - either one or both with wings, preferably a h/c situation in which one of them protects the other with his wings. Or destiny trope : their wings fit together. Or Q's wings were damaged when he was young but Bond's wings will protect him too. Or angel!Q, damaging his wings when he protects Bond from bullets. Or just anything with wings please?!?!! Thanks! - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for implied child abuse.

Bond’s wings were glorious. Cream and gold, textured, feathers soft, layered perfectly. They were also large, and with them came a sense of protection, of being able to hide in and around Bond, let Bond look after him.

Bond knew Q had wings; the signs were obvious, the distinctive ridges along his back, the suggestion of feathers. Q had never shown him. Bond tried to pretend it didn’t concern him, but he was quite honestly lying; showing Q his wings had been an ultimate show of trust, and Q would not – could not – reciprocate.

“My mother tried to cut them off me,” Q murmured to darkness. “She didn’t want them, she… they’re still there, but I never quite… They aren’t usable, not really. Do you want to see them?”

Bond nodded. He could have easily reiterated that he would not be worried about their state, that he didn’t judge, any number of things, but Q would not believe it. There was no point.

Q shrugged off his shirt, the nubs of flesh at his shoulder blades flexing slightly. They blossomed out with a rush, the sudden jerking motion of a disused mechanism; Q stood, the hacked remnants of once-beautiful wings haloing him, light issuing around his silhouette. Bond could see where parts had been brutally sliced off, could only begin to imagine the pain; growing wings held so many nerve endings, and the choppy stumps where branches of wing would have grown still looked red raw.

Q’s head hung slightly, ashamed, and Bond just held him.

-

“And this, _this_ is why I do not go on active missions,” Q yelled. Gunshots whistled through the air above their heads. “Bond, over here please!”

Another gunshot, and Q screamed, the bullet grazing through his side, sending him toppling to the ground. “ _Your wings!_ ” Bond cried at him. Q’s eyes widened. He hadn’t used them properly in years, not in defensive scenarios, in any case. He wasn’t even sure he could, with this kind of stress, knowing what they were, how they looked, how useless they were.

They burst out abruptly, shielding him from a bullet that would have hit his shoulder or upper arm. Q yelled in pain, but bullets lodged in wings were safer than in the rest of the body; they were less likely to hit vital organs or arteries, there were almost no nerve endings in the peripheries of wings. At least, on fully developed wings. Q’s had never grown properly, were still sensitive, delicate.

The bullets kept on hitting. Q’s arms snaked above his head. His wings were stunted. He didn’t have long before the bullets hit something vital, before he and his goddamned inability to get away, to fly, to escape, to protect, would be lost. He was going to die.

Everything stopped with unbelievable abruptness. “ _Run_ ,” Bond shouted over the gunshots. Q scrambled to his feet with Bond’s help, eyes blurry, pain making him dizzy.

Bond’s beautiful wings were extended against the sunlight and gunshots, keeping him safe, guarding him from everything. “ _Oh_ ,” he breathed. Bond was extraordinary, simply extraordinary. The feathers flew off him in puffs as they impacted, and he didn’t so much as wince; the incredible extensions of feathers and fibrous membranes, so strong, so dextrous.

“ _Go_ ,” Bond said lividly, and Q returned to reality with a rush. He brushed a hand against Bond’s face, and did as bidden; he ran.

\---

Q barrelled forward as fast he could manage, diving out of the way of bullets, aware that he was losing blood; his body was becoming slower, lethargic, with every passing step.

He ducked down rapidly behind a few pillars, before darting up again; it was the upward motion that stalled him, his vision blanking out suddenly, knees collapsing against the concrete, and people were <i>still shooting.</i>

“<i>James</i>,” he rasped, as his body started to slip away from him. Bond was the only person left who could possibly get him out. His blood was everywhere, hands and back and mutilated wings sodden red.

James’s wings curled around him like a cage, concealing his form from further harm. Everything was foggy, as James leant over his tightly curled body, wings spread out, guarding him.

Q couldn’t feel how his wings – appendages with some cognisance – began to unfurl, twine themselves with Bond’s. Bond noted it, but didn’t respond; he would have time for a response later, time to understand why the barely formed wings of a young man were able to knot themselves into his own, until they were one complete organism.

Q’s breathing was getting fainter, more ragged; Bond breathed out, long and steady, linking himself into Q.

Wings fitted only rarely. Two independent beings, made for one another alone, able to fit together; they were called ‘mates’ in Old Tongues, their wings fitting to link physical bodies. Bond and Q joined; Bond’s strength literally kept Q alive, the fibrous membranes of their wings flexing in tandem.

Bond could hear, could feel, Q’s pain; he tempered it easily, without undue effort, keeping Q’s heart beating, keeping his breath. He would survive this, for no other reason than sheer luck; in the least likely of circumstances, they found the person whom their wings could fit with.

Q’s human body was comparatively small; Bond’s arms picked him, keeping their tentatively linked wings together, Q bleeding sluggishly into him as he used his wings for their primary purpose, and took to the skies.


	5. The Domestic Abuse Recovery fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You probably still have tons of prompts but it seems I'm greedy. Q only knows abusive realtionships and gave up fighting it, so when he gets together with Bond he expects the same. He flinches, he excuses, he holds his mouth after a snarky remark escapes. Bond notices and shows him how much Q is loved and how tenderly. Please? Thank you so much! - anon

Bond fell for a young man with stone in his eyes. The lethal and dangerous, electric and brilliant, vulnerable and overworked young man who ran a department in MI6, who was one of the best shots Bond had ever seen – _I test them myself, Bond, I don’t trust my minions to be accurate_ – and sarcastic to a degree that could wither plants.

Bond had absolutely no idea where that young man had gone.

With perfect hindsight, he could trace it back to their first kiss; the moment they had accepted that they were now in a relationship. Bond had leaned forward, had kissed Q very gently – and Q had submitted without question. There wasn’t so much as a comment, a raised eyebrow, to follow it.

An almost irrelevant point to some, but not to those who knew Q. He never let anything go with comment. Q always had the last word, always a pithy comment.

Since that moment, Bond had not heard Q say no to absolutely anything. It was a small thing, but he simply didn’t; Bond suggested to go out, Q dropped everything. Whatever Bond suggested, or initiated, Q went with without question. If Bond noticed the slight dimming of the spark in his eyes, he didn’t ask why.

Again, perfect hindsight led him to seriously regret that.

Bond had his suspicions. He was far from stupid. Q could not stand arguments with Bond. In any other situation, he held his own with breathtaking ferocity; if Bond raised his voice, he faded out without a word. No amount of coaxing would get Q to tell him why.

The more Bond thought about it, the more he noticed. Whenever they were alone together, Q flinched at loud noises, more obviously at any signs of anger or irritation. It was only very slight, but enough. With sex, he never initiated, and no matter how well he played his role, he somehow always twisted it to be what Bond wanted. Bond reciprocated, of course, but there was a glimmer of sadness in Q that he couldn’t remove, and it frightened him.

At the end of it all, the thing that was most obvious was the fact that Q stopped insulting him. Completely and entirely. Previously, Q had called him everything from an ‘old man’ to an ‘imbecile’; now, there was nothing was deafening silence.

Everything reached a peak when Q smashed a mug. Something completely bloody innocuous. They were in Bond’s apartment, having a perfectly normal conversation, when the mug slipped from Q’s fingers and smashed against the tiled floor.

Q swore, ducked to the floor. The tea was still scalding, had flown over his feet; Q somehow didn’t notice, trying to clean up as fast as possible.

Bond moved. Q flinched, with a startled cry that sounded horribly like a sob.

Bond’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Q, it’s alright. It’s just a mug, it’s fine – are you alright?”

Q didn’t lift his head, still scrabbling for fragments of mug; Bond spotted a thin blossom of red in the milky tea, and reached for Q’s hand. He suddenly understood Q’s mutterings, a constant running soundtrack of _I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry_ , and tried to quell his anger, knowing it wouldn’t help.

“Let me see your hand,” Bond asked gently; Q stilled, letting Bond pluck his hand from the floor, examine the slice through his fourth finger that was bleeding steadily into the puddle of tea. Q was shaking, with the effort of somebody trying very hard to stay still. “Q. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Q hiccupped again, more coherently. “I didn’t mean to…”

“I know. But why the reaction? It’s just a mug.”

“I b-broke it,” Q managed; Bond realised that Q, the Q Bond was used to, anyway, had long since left the building. This was a shadow, a terrified boy, an amalgamation of memories. Everything made sense with a rush of clarity.

“Q,” Bond said carefully, waiting for Q to look at him. He did, eyes slightly pink, looking angry and defiant and utterly, pathetically terrified. “Q. It’s only a mug. It’s alright, really. Nothing to worry about. No, look at me. It’s alright.”

Bond waited until Q met his gaze, and slowly nodded, before continuing: “I don’t know what bastard made you this afraid, but you need to know – I’m never going to hurt you, and I will never give you cause to fear me.”

The silence was uncomfortable, elongated.

“Awfully formal phraseology,” Q managed, through uncertain breaths, the sarcasm devoid of its usual bite.

Regardless, Bond couldn’t suppress a smile. At least there was a comment there at all.

“Come here,” Bond told him, scooping Q into his arms, slightly bloodied tea soaking into his suit trousers. Q didn’t seem to mind; he twined himself around Bond’s torso with no shame whatsoever, the first physical act he had initiated since they had started dating.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Q whispered, almost inaudibly.

“I have no intention of doing so,” Bond assured him, and held Q fractionally tighter.

\---

Bond had loved somebody, once. He loved somebody now. The two were not the same, and yet they were, and it was uneasy, uncomfortable split when he considered it. He missed Q, the leader of Q-branch, the younger Quartermaster in history, the youngest member of MI6 at anybody near his level of seniority.

Watching him work was utterly entrancing. The ribbon limbs and fingers were everywhere at once, the screens in front of him moving erratically, closing down to certain, selected images. “003, report,” he snapped, tongue trapped between his teeth for a moment as he worked, listened to a response Bond couldn’t hear.

Bond waited. He was quite happy to do so; he could remain in quiet with his own thoughts indefinitely. Q couldn’t. He had to be busy, had to be thinking, or he started to run visibly mad. He had a glorious, ephemeral confidence, fire burning in each atom of Q’s body, straining for activity and motion; Bond found it compelling to watch.

Bond stayed out of the way, waited for Q to finish up, watched from his invisible viewpoint and let Q do his work. Q was in a million places at once, hands darting and diving across screens, computers, a whirlwind raging.

He stopped abruptly, clipped words, polite tone. Some form of agreement; he indicated to R, who started to take over Q’s job, with considerably less aplomb. Q watched, his form itching for motion, sweeping his possessions together, walking towards the exit and finding Bond’s little viewpoint.

Everything that Q was fractured the moment he looked at Bond.

Even now, even after Bond understood a little more, it was no easier. It was an immediate stab, to see the Q Bond loved literally close off. The fire was quelled; it lived there somewhere still, but was so subjugated it was almost unrecognisable.

“Hi,” Q said, his tone quieter and calmer, almost tentative.

“All done?” Q’s eyes darted to his desk. 003 was being monitored by R now; R was competent, but Q always preferred being there for his agents, if he could be. Bond swallowed the slight sigh that built in his throat. “You can stay, if you like. 003 could do with your help, I’m sure.”

“We agreed to meet at seven…”

“You’re the Quartermaster of MI6, your job is demanding. I was in Istanbul for dinner last week,” Bond pointed out, feeling abruptly tired. Very tired. It was like dealing with a child, when Q was like this – in practise, whenever Q was around Bond. Bond constantly had to set the parameters, explain that Q would be alright, would be looked after, didn’t have to _earn_ Bond’s care or attention.

Q looked at Bond like he didn’t quite recognise him. He leaned forward, dropping a kiss on Bond’s lips, fingers brushing Bond’s cheek deftly. Gaze dropping, he muttered a thanks, disappeared back to his desk.

Bond heard Q swear violently, slam a hand against the wood. He watched in sad silence as Q pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting against himself. He didn’t look back at Bond, and Bond would pretend not to watch him.

Q picked up his microphone again, overriding R. “003, Q here. You should be a hundred or so metres further forward than you are, care to explain why you aren’t?”

Bond walked away.

-

“I’m sorry,” Q told him, his voice closed, vulnerable, angry. “I know… I know it’s not what you want me to do, but it’s just…”

“Q, you’re missing the point,” Bond interrupted, tone diminishing, exhaustion leaving him sad and soft. “I don’t _want_ you to do anything. I want _you_ to want to do whatever is it you’re doing, rather than trying to orientate yourself around me. It doesn’t suit you.”

Q bit his tongue, said nothing. Bond didn’t help him. He didn’t know how.

“He was my first,” Q told him, unbidden. Bond had never asked. It had never seemed important. Bond looked up, curious; Q watched his own hand lie on the table, seemingly fascinated by the swirling patterns of cells. “It wasn’t abusive.”

Bond slammed a hand angrily on the desk; Q snatched a hissing breath, flinched back, his terror horribly, painfully obvious. “Please, please tell you don’t actually _believe_ that?” Bond hissed at him, livid. He hadn’t meant to frighten Q but jesus, _jesus_ , this was bullshit.

Q’s body language screamed that he wanted escape; he leant awfrom Bond, just slightly, instinctive. His eyes sought escape routes. Every single muscle strained, ready to run, waiting for any chance to get away.

Yet, even then, his eyes were dead. He wouldn’t run. Even if Bond did decide to start lashing out – and god, even the thought was repulsive – he would stay. He would take it, allow himself to be hurt.

This was hard, this was so hard to live through, to watch. Bond leaned forward. Kissed Q’s forehead. Q, of course, didn’t move an inch; he trembled slightly as Bond came closer to him, flinched incrementally at the contact, watched Bond close himself in their bedroom with his eyes faintly glossy, and fire burning too-brightly, burning out.

_“I don’t want you to leave,” Q whispered, almost inaudibly._

Bond slid down the door, head in his hands, and gave himself a few minutes. Just a few minutes. He could do that. He was allowed to do that. He _had_ to be allowed that.

\---

Q was quiet, but then, Bond had become somewhat accustomed to Q’s quietness. “You have questions,” Q stated, quiet and confrontational. Bond wondered how Q wasn’t tearing himself apart with the duality of it all; quiet reticence was not his modus operandi.

Bond could tell that he wasn’t cloaking his anger well. Q’s expression was guarded, intensely wary. “Tell me,” Bond asked, his voice a little too commanding for anybody’s tastes.

Q looked sad. Almost unreachably so. Such a simple, uncomplicated emotion; it was drawn across his face, in the carefully defensive posture of somebody itching to run, dying to escape. “You have to listen to me,” Q said sharply, his eyes dilating with fear as he realised his tone had been far from polite. He deflated slightly, torn between anger and pleading, and he going insane like this.

Bond nodded. “It wasn’t abusive, Bond. I loved him, and he loved me. He took care of me. He was not a pleasant person while drunk, or angry. Neither am I. James…”

“He hit you,” Bond pointed out; Q looked lost, and still horribly sad, in a way Bond couldn’t do anything about.

“Do you think I’m not aware of that?” Q commented dryly. “Yes, he hit me. He also managed to get me away from home, something which I will be forever grateful for. He gave me a home, and a life. My parents refused to accept my sexuality, and cut me off financially; he took me away, showed me I could be loved.”

“Q, somebody hitting you does not constitute ‘love’,” Bond pointed out.

“How the fuck would you know?” Q spat, suddenly livid; Bond was painfully aware of what dangerous ground he was stamping all over, how emotionally fraught Q was. “When the last functional relationship you managed? Ollie _loved_ me.”

“Why did you leave, then?”

Q snatched in a breath, almost hesitant. “I hacked into MI6, and they gave me a job,” Q mumbled. “I wasn’t home much any more. He didn’t respond well. He told me he would kill himself if I left. He then rendered me unable to walk for a week. I asked M to make me disappear, and she agreed. Ollie ended up hospitalised, he had a mental breakdown.”

“But…”

“You said you’d listen,” Q snapped again, sounding slightly frantic. “It wasn’t… the end of it got nasty, but he wasn’t himself, he was mentally ill. The rest, it was… I’m not an easy person to be around.”

“Rubbish. I enjoy being around you, every second I am,” Bond told him, without expectation, or even real intonation; it was a stated fact, without question.

Q looked at him through dark-rimmed eyes, expression cold. “You can’t pretend to understand functionality. Living with somebody is different, a long-term relationship is different. You find what works.”

Bond could try and list the infinite number of reasons in which Q was completely wrong. Q would not listen, and they both knew that, but it didn’t stop it being unbelievably wrong, and painful to know that Q thought that way.

“We will never work in any way that involves you being hurt,” Bond told Q frankly. Q wasn’t quite smiling, but he tried. “That isn’t how we will work. I will never allow you to be hurt, not if I can avoid it.”

Q’s breath caught, very slightly. He didn’t need to ask to know that Bond meant it, quite entirely. Bond would love him, care for him, keep him safe. He asked for nothing in return.

It would take a while. Q harboured massive degrees of scepticism about the whole affair. He would wonder for a while if Bond would simply snap, at some stage. Whether he would turn, when Q least expected it. Whether this had any chance of surviving, and whether he would be safe and well at the end of it.

“I love you,” Bond told Q, again, matter-of-fact. He didn’t seem to bother with inflexion. It was just truth. Simple, unmitigated truth. He loved Q, would never allow him to be hurt, would certainly never hurt him himself.

Bond kissed him gently. They would make this work. They would find some way of making this work.


	6. The Coma!Q/Bondlock fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you do Bondlock? If so, a Bondlock/00Q prompt for you, if you'd be kind enough to write to it. (: Q is badly injured somehow, and declared brain dead. Sherlock and Mycroft are of course his next of kin, so they're the ones who have to make the decision whether to take him off life support or not. Bond's been with Q for a few years, but legally has no say in the decision. - anon

The injuries spanned his slim frame, a terrible patchwork of markings. The explosion had ripped through Q-branch, killing most of its members, leaving the head of branch severely injured. There was little of him left unharmed.

After a handful of days, the doctors finally explained: if he ever regained consciousness – which was unlikely – there was minimal chance that he would have any cognition, memory, abilities. There was a chance, yes. But there was also a substantial chance that he would never wake up.

Bond broke his hand punching a rather relentless wall when he heard. He hadn’t left Q’s bedside since the man had arrived there; through the haze of monitors, there was a single constant. No power on earth would move him.

“Who’re you?” Bond asked roughly, when the thin man refused to leave the doorway.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. Q’s brother,” Sherlock said, in a surprisingly small voice. He straightened, walking to the other side of Q’s bed, occupying the other spare seat. “I spoke with the doctors.”

“Brother? Where’s…?”

“Mycroft will be along shortly. We need to work out whether to keep him alive.”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘whether’?” Bond asked, flinty. “And how the hell do I know you are who you say you are?”

“Q is twenty-nine on October the ninth. He drinks Earl Grey, and will not touch green or fruit teas for anything. He takes his tea with a dash of milk, no sugar, no milk on bad days. He loves Star Trek, although denies it, and had no friends until university. He ran around the garden in one of our mother’s dresses once pretending to be the pink Power Ranger,” Sherlock told him, his voice frighteningly clinical. Bond doesn’t look at him, doesn’t see how tightly Sherlock’s fist is clenched, how tight his jaw is, trying to hold himself together.

Bond feels the world falling from under his feet, and shows none of it. “He’ll pull through.”

“He’s a computer genius. He can’t defy logic, or indeed medicine,” Sherlock said coldly. “Believe me, it is not… what I wanted,” he completed, a wealth of vulnerability visible for a fraction of a second. “Mycroft, stop lingering in doorways, would you?”

A larger, physically imposing man appeared to replace Sherlock’s silhouette. Intriguing; a man in a suit was somehow managing to convey a casual, arrogant power that could take down worlds in a series of sentences.

“Mr Bond,” Mycroft said primly. “Good afternoon. I understand you have remained with our brother since the outset?”

“Yes,” Bond replied simply. Mycroft nodded, and turned to Sherlock.

“It is our responsibility to do what is best for him,” he told Sherlock; Sherlock glanced up at him, and nodded dispassionately. Bond watched them, body tense. Sherlock buried his hands in his hair, head bowed, and Bond understood – something had been agreed, minus any dialogue, something he had not been party to.

Mycroft sighed, and Bond whitened. “You’re going to pull the plug,” he rasped. “Jesus, _no_. Don’t you bloody _think about it_.”

“You have no in say in this, Bond, we are his next of kin,” Mycroft told him angrily. “Leave us to do what is right by our _brother_.”

“I’ve been with Q for four and a half years, and have never met you. I think I can safely say I know more of Q than you do. He talked about you both, yes, but he spent the _time_ with me. Not you. And I say you keep him alive, god _damnit_. You don’t get to cut me out of his life at a moment like this,” Bond yelled at them. “You don’t know the first bloody thing about him, either of you.”

“Then do enlighten us,” Sherlock growled.

Bond took a breath, exhaling shallowly. “He watches Dragon’s Den just so he can yell at the TV and always win. He…” Bond shut his eyes a moment, picturing Q carefully. “He smiles at each sunset he’s able to see, when he’s out the office. He’s seen three films in the last two years, but knows every Beatles track, in the right order, and sings them when he thinks nobody’s around. He cheats at poker.”

“… Told you,” Sherlock shot petulantly at Mycroft, who was very still.

“He loves me,” Bond told them, very carefully. “And I love him. His chances may not be good, but while he still has any chance at all, I will _not_ watch you kill him.”

The silence was awe-inspiring. Bond and Mycroft kept a horrible, unending eye contact. Sherlock, meanwhile, smirked to himself; Mycroft hadn’t been pulled up like this in _years_.

“We will discuss this again later.”

-

Five hours later, and Bond was still awake to watch the very faint, but entirely perceptible, flicker in Q’s brain activity.

\---

Two and a half weeks later, Q woke up.

The satisfaction Bond wanted to feel at having proved the Holmes brothers wrong was tempered by the basic fact that he had no idea whether Q would be even able to talk. The monitors whirred insistently, keeping Q breathing, keeping his liver functioning, half of Q’s physical body kept working by machine.

Q’s breathing hitched slightly, brain activity registering far more actively than previously, the heart monitor spiking. Bond blinked uncomfortably, sitting forward, watching as Q’s eyes cracked open.

“Q?” Bond asked, feeling more panicked than he could ever remember being. This was his _Q_ , the man he was in love with, and _jesus_ , but he needed Q to be alright.

Q’s eyes focused on him for a fraction of a second, and slipped shut again. Bond hit every buzzer in the vicinity, and fell back, breathing so hard, so frantically, his head began to spin.

-

“He’s regaining consciousness incrementally,” Mycroft said flippantly, leaning on his umbrella. Bond watched him with ice in his eyes. “We will need to be ready for rehabilitation.”

“And you were ready to turn the machines off,” Bond noted coldly.

“He will need to be physical life support for a while longer; he cannot breathe on his own,” Mycroft explained. Bond watched the rise and fall of Q’s chest, mechanically controlled; he would quite happily stay as long as needed, would look after Q if he needed to.

Sherlock belted through the door like a bat out of hell, breathing quickly, staring wildly at Q. “He woke up?” Sherlock asked, eyes wide. “Is he alright?!”

“Comatose patients generally fail to regain full, prolonged consciousness from the off,” Mycroft drawled. “But yes, he did wake up, for a matter of a minute or so.”

Sherlock walked to Q’s bedside, ghosting a hand over his little brother’s destroyed form. “Bond, are you prepared to keep my brother safe?” Sherlock asked, forehead creasing, eyes still their usual cold blue.

“Yes,” Bond said simply.

“Then Mycroft, you can stop trying to get Q put in one of your rehabilitation centres; Bond can deal with security, and John trusts St Barts,” Sherlock told him firmly. Bond decided, in that moment, that he really disliked Mycroft Holmes; the man had done very little except lie to him, or at the very least, withhold information.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Mycroft intoned in a low, lethal voice. “I must absent myself; I will be back shortly.”

Mycroft left, without a further word to Bond. “He’s a prick,” Bond told Sherlock flatly; Sherlock snorted, occupying the seat Mycroft had just left, looking across the wealth of machines keeping his brother alive.

“I grew up with him. Pity me,” Sherlock told him. “And pity Q.”

Bond gave a rather inelegant cackle. “I do. Christ knows, I do, he has told me stories…”

“Fuck.”

“That’s where he got the swearing from, then,” Bond said; Sherlock glanced at him, eyebrow raised. Sherlock could see why Q was fond of Bond; he didn’t put up with rubbish, could hold his own despite being intellectually inferior. Much like John, only Bond had a sense of danger and mystique that was obviously appealing to Q’s sensibilities.

Mycroft could go to hell. Bond was just the person Q needed. And even if he wasn’t, he was the person Q wanted, had wanted for several years now. Sherlock wasn’t overwhelmingly fond of him himself, but he didn’t need to be.

“I’ll ensure that whatever happens, you’ll stay with him,” Sherlock said, sounding vaguely surly. Bond nodded his thanks, his expression equally unreadable.

Sherlock groaned at himself. He really hoped that neither Mycroft nor John would ever know that he was being this sentimental.

\---

Q was mending. Slowly, but it was worth noting anyway.

Sherlock and Bond had formed a strange semi-allegiance, which worked solely because they both disliked Mycroft more than they disliked the other. Sherlock was happy to piss Mycroft off, and Bond knew he needed an ally in the battle against Mycroft.

They had their own methods of attack. Bond was utterly relentless, in a non-cerebral way that confused Mycroft completely; Bond wasn’t really a victim of mind games, given that he just didn’t care enough to engage. Sherlock knew Mycroft’s weaknesses, and had no compunctions about exploiting them.

Bond, therefore, had a camp bed by Q’s bedside, specialised access to MI6, and the guarantee that no decisions regarding Q would be made without his being consulted first. Mycroft was a long way from delighted; he wanted the best for his youngest brother, and didn’t really care what Bond thought of that. He had access to specialists, and care that no hospital could replicate.

Sherlock smiled smugly, and told Mycroft to import them into St Barts, ‘if you have that much power’. Mycroft rolled his eyes, wishing fervently for divine intervention against the stupidity of his brother, and James Bond.

Nothing came. He imported the specialists.

Q was taken off the respirator as soon as possible. His ribs were healing well, as was his hip. The burns were thankfully minimal; he had suffered more damage from rubble than fire. He was fed both intravenously, and through a tube directly into his stomach. Bit by bit, those machines were taken away.

In the meantime, Q continued to wake up, for ever more prolonged spates. It was difficult to assess what cerebral damage there was – hopefully minimal – but for now, it was enough that Q had woken, seen Bond, and smiled.

A few days later, he woke in time to see Mycroft. Mycroft started bleating about something relatively complex, and not what Q wanted to hear – so Q, ever unflinchingly honest, flicked him the finger. Flicked was probably too complimentary. He turned over his hand, lifted the finger slowly. Smirked. Passed out.

Mycroft was inches from giving up. This was getting absurd now. Everybody seemed adamant that they wanted to work against him, when he could potentially do what was best for his youngest sibling.

Nobody listened. “Bond,” Mycroft said eventually, when Q had fallen asleep with his fingers wrapped around Bond’s, a smile still ghosted on his lips. “I believe I have misjudged you.”

It was the closest to an apology anybody had heard Mycroft issue in years. Sherlock snorted. Bond just nodded his thanks. Mycroft sniffed, and sat in the chair by Q’s bedside, feeling rather put-upon.

Younger siblings were a bloody nightmare.


	7. The Time Lord Collection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for filling up all most of my prompts. You are wonderful. And I am so sorry but to ask you a favor: Could you please write a 00Q fic in which Q is the Doctor Who's son (with one of his companion, you choose) and he use his time lord ability to save Bond's lives numerous times? Then one day Bond finds out that Q is a supernatural creature and they fall in love, and Bond become Q's companion? - chibura

In Bond’s defence, he had been unconscious for most of the times when Q had helped him. He also hadn’t seen it coming, even slightly. Most people wouldn’t really <i>expect</i> that their Quartermaster, and senior agent, was not entirely human.

Q was almost entirely Time Lord; he had no idea who his mother was (but the Doctor muttered ‘spoilers’ whenever he asked), and the Doctor had raised him. Q had been sent off to live his own life, with a chunk of TARDIS coral and the promise that the Doctor would come and visit regularly. Q needed time on the Slow Path, apparently.

He was happy; he had less of the compulsive need to keep on exploring, and more of a will to explore all aspects of life. Start on the slow path, escape when he wanted, when his own TARDIS had grown and he could leave Earth.

Q used artron relatively frequently where Bond was concerned, for the simple reason that Bond couldn’t keep himself alive properly without help. Bond had no idea that Q was a) keeping him alive and b) had managed to extend Bond’s natural life expectancy by nearly twenty-five years, altogether. Assuming no gunshot wounds happened in the interim.

Medical thought Bond was the luckiest person alive. M thought Q was obsessed with Bond, given that he continually asked to go on active missions with him _despite_ being cripplingly afraid of flying. Bond thought Q was a superb friend, and an excellent Quartermaster. He didn’t really know that Q didn’t accompany other double-oh agents. Nobody pointed it out.

 _I should be dead_ , Bond thought to himself, as he woke up. The last thing he remembered was falling off a building. Really, there was no way in hell he should have still been alive.

Q was on the phone. “It’s my choice!” he said heatedly. “Dad, artron is… I don’t necessarily _want_ to live for as long as you have, I’ve lost a couple of hundred now, but…”

“Q?” Bond rasped. Q twisted around, eyes wide, panicking slightly.

“I have to go, he’s woken up. Yes, _yes_ dad. Daddy… I’ll tell him. Okay… Fine. Yes. Okay. Yeah, yeah, love you too. Bye.”

“You call your father daddy?” Bond asked, sitting up, stretching muscles, as Q hung up. Q rolled his eyes, ducking by Bond’s side. “What did you mean, you’ve lost a couple of hundred, anyway?”

Q opened his mouth, and closed it again, wondering how in the hell to express it properly. He honestly had no idea how he was supposed to explain to Bond that he was quite definitely not entirely human without Bond panicking.

Q disconnected them from MI6, and told a story in the quiet. A story of a civilisation lost to dust, worlds and universes, of borderline immortality, of forever and of artron energy, of loss.

Bond listened, and that in itself was surprising. Q had expected Bond to disconnect, laugh it away as some childish story that had nothing to do with him or Q or the people they were.

When Q was finished, Bond was quiet for a long while. Q let the silence run and run, into infinity, turning everything to stillness.

“You’re only here until your time machine finishes growing?” Bond asked at one stage, to clarify. Q nodded, not bothering to amend _and space_ , at least not yet. Bond nodded to himself, and the silence fell back.

“Bond?” Q asked, after nearly half an hour of complete quiet. Bond looked up at him, slightly disconnected, slightly odd.

“You’re really intending to just… leave?” Bond asked, voice cold and quiet. Q’s eyebrow contracted, confused. “You would leave MI6 without a word, presumably, just go, and never come back?”

Q sensed that he was missing something relatively major. Bond sounded disconcertingly angry.

Really, Q didn’t see it coming; Bond dived at him, kissing him intently, pulling him apart. Q pulled back, gasping for breath, shocked, reeling. “Bond. Bond, you…”

“You would leave,” Bond repeated, almost lividly angry. “No. Q, you will not leave.”

“Because?” Q asked quietly, his heart feeling like it had suspended.

Bond didn’t quite answer. Not the way Q had expected, or indeed hoped for. And yet – despite everything – he couldn’t deny that Bond’s answer was actually _more_ than he had ever wanted. Bond kissed him again, as Q told him to repeat it, wanting to hold onto the words and make them somehow more tangible.

_“I’m coming with you.”_

_\---  
_

“Jesus, _Q_ , no, _no Q_ , stay with me, _fuck_ …”

Q gave a little cry of pain, hand over his bleeding stomach. “James, get back please,” Q managed to say, throat closing slightly as he tasted blood in his mouth. Bond seemed intent on ignoring him in favour of panic. “ _James_ , get _back,_ before I hurt you.”

Bond took a long moment, horrendously uncertain of what to do; he could remember the multiple stories Q had told him, half of them barely seeming relevant giving that they didn’t strictly refer to Q.

Bond scrambled abruptly backwards, as an odd, yellow-orange light started to glow around his lover’s body. It glinted, very slightly, washing over his body before Q abruptly _exploded_.

The scream of shock was instinctive; Q looked like he was fire, burning brightly, consumed completely. His face was bloody _melting_ , for god’s sake, his body changing, lengthening.

Everything faded out, leaving a body that was distinctly _not_ Q’s.

Q sat up.

“Well, I didn’t see that coming,” he said, at lightening speed. “I’m alive. Bloody hell, I’m alive, and I seem to have everything intact. And eyesight back, twenty-twenty, _brilliant_. Oh. Bugger. Daddy’s going to kill me. Shit.”

The man was in his early thirties, ginger hair in long curls, looking an odd sidestep away from being Q, only with years more maturity, longer face. Not the most aesthetic of faces, but animated, had a sharp appeal of its own. He was taller by a few inches, Q’s cardigans looking very odd on him, the trousers too short.

“Q?” Bond breathed, eyes wide.

The stranger glanced at him. “ _James_ ,” he said, in a tone that was all Q’s. “I’m so sorry. Regeneration. I did tell you about it; my body changes, my entire physical form changes to compensate for the damage. I was dying, I didn’t have a choice. I’m still… I’m still me, James.”

Bond was finding this very, very difficult to deal with. Q, meanwhile, noticed his new hair colour. “Daddy’s going to be _so_ jealous…”

“You’re Q?” Bond repeated blankly, as the man stood up, coming to terms with the new size of his body, the relative space he now occupied.

The thing looked at him, and there was something, some intangible thing, and it _was_. Bond had gone an incredible shade of white. He stood, ventured closer, brushed fingers along the almost-Q’s arm. Tangible, real. He had just watched his boyfriend shape-shift.

“Are you alright?” Q asked, voice tender, concerned. Bond hasn’t got the faintest idea how to answer that question, so he gives a strangely lopsided shrug. “Okay. Good. So. We need to speak to MI6, and I need to call my father.”

Bond could only nod. Q took a little step closer, encroaching on Bond’s space, pressing a kiss to his lips that tasted wrong, but felt right. Oh god, but it was weird. “Q?” Bond asked again, quieter now, seeking comfort, oddly enough.

Q nodded. “Hi,” he said gently, and smiled.

\---

Q had barely managed to get off the phone when the wind picked up, an accompanying noise like grinding, like motion, completely unique and completely impossible.

Bond couldn’t stop staring at him. He _missed_ his Q. The skinny, dark-haired wonder who’d run Q-branch, whom he’d fallen in love with. This creature – while similar – was not the same.

A police box appeared out of thin air, and Bond had to sit down. There came a point of just too much weirdness, and magically appearing police boxes was definitely that. He reached a hand into his jacket, lingering very close to his Glock out of sheer instinct; it was probably worrying, that it had become a genuine comfort.

The door swung open; Bond looked up, to see a boyish, poorly-dressed man with a bow tie topple out of it, hands up slightly, gesturing at Q helplessly. “You’re…” he managed, dropping to the ground to look at Q’s feet, darting upwards again, utterly frenetic in motion. “You’re _ginger_. That’s not fair, I’ve always wanted to be ginger. How do you feel?”

Q shrugged, still looking himself over. His face was the weirdest part, felt very different as he spoke and made faces. Not to mention that he’d dropped a good octave in vocal tone, his voice taking on a treacly quality that Bond found both intensely gorgeous, and surreal in ways he couldn’t begin to express. “I wasn’t supposed to regenerate while on the Slow Path, hmm?” Q asked, eyebrow raised while the strangely excitable boy darted around him.

“Q?” Bond asked quietly, from out of the way; Q looked over, and Bond just lifted his hands, palms upwards, in a universal gesture of _what the fuck is going on_.

The boyish man twisted on him. “You must be James Bond,” he said brightly, extending a hand; Bond stood to greet him, his hand shaken over-enthusiastic by the ball of energy. “I’m the Doctor.”

“My father,” Q supplemented, nodding at him. “And that’s the TARDIS.”

Bond looked at the police box wearily. “That’s… a time machine?”

“Time and Relative Dimension in Space,” the Doctor corrected, looking a little petulant. “It isn’t _just_ a time machine. It travels in space, too. All across the known and unknown portions of the universe. It…”

“Daddy, enough,” Q interjected lightly, the Doctor trailing to a stop, arms still eloquently waving through the air. “James is still adapting to all this, be nice. Are you alright?”

The last, he directed to Bond himself. Bond looked over Q, over the blue police box that had _definitely_ not been there ten minutes ago, and the excitable man in the tweed jacket. He gave a slight shrug. “It’s all fine,” he said quietly. “There is more in the world than can be dreamt of in usual philosophies.”

“And the man knows his Shakespeare,” the Doctor said contentedly, as though this was the moment that Bond became esteemed in his eyes. He glanced over his son, shaking his head slightly. “You couldn’t have had a _normal_ life, could you?”

“No,” Q replied flatly, hand seeking Bond’s in a comforting gesture, that didn’t seem quite right on his body, looked a bit uncomfortable as compared to his usual fluidity. He was there, though, linked to Bond in a way that promised he would not let go.

The Doctor looked between them, rolled their eyes, stalked towards the TARDIS. When nobody followed, he poked his head out. “Well, come on then!” he told them both, retreating back.

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Charming though your father is, that promises to be a tight fit,” he noted in a low voice.

Q grinned, tugging Bond forward. “Not a problem,” he rumbled in that low voice, pushing open the door.

To his credit, Bond didn’t even do a double-take. He stepped into the TARDIS, gave it a once-over, nodded to himself as though it had been expected. Q seemed perfectly at home, the Doctor busy playing at the central console.

Bond just sighed, moving back to Q’s side. He would need to grow used to this new creature, because damn it, he wasn’t leaving Q behind. “So, where are we going?” he asked, Q shooting him a strangely familiar grin from the wrong face.

The Doctor laughed, and all three of them toppled over as the TARDIS moved.

_\---_

Bond was doing admirably well, but there was still the small issue of Q looking wrong, but acting right, and the supposed concept of time and space travel which was taking a fair amount of adaptation.

The TARDIS flew furiously to one side, taking Bond and Q with it; Q toppled over, falling into Bond’s lap, Bond flinching back slightly from the not-Q and making the young man wince with sadness. “I’m still Q,” he murmured sadly, and glanced towards his father. “Where are we going?”

The Doctor grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tweed jacket flying out around him as he slammed levels and buttons all over the console. “Anywhere. Everywhere,” he smirked. “The Mthal carnival, the pleasure planets, the past, the future.”

“Time,” Bond echoed, clearly sceptical; the Doctor just glanced over, winking. “You can go anywhere?”

“Near enough,” the Doctor nodded, as Q watched Bond with a curiously sad expression; he glanced between them, rolling his eyes. “Q, you pick.”

Q glanced to Bond, smiled faintly. “The Aos galaxy. The mimicked Rome,” Q specified; the Doctor raised an eyebrow, smiled, pulled a lever.

Everybody went flying to one side; Q held on as best he could, Bond knocked to his feet once again. Q quickly darted to his side, extended a hand; there was the slightest heartbeat of hesitation, before Bond accepted it, helped him up. “Please,” Q asked softly. “James…”

Bond leaned him, kissed him very quickly, foreign lips. “I’ll be alright,” Bond assured him, looking over him, seeking a flash of green in the newly coloured irises, as warmth, _something_ to let him cling onto Q.

“Of that, 007, I am certain,” Q replied quietly, and pulled him to the door. “Rome. Your favourite city in the world. Now, with added hygiene and fewer tourist,” Q grinned, and helped Bond step out, into the absolutely _blinding_ light of a new morning.


	8. The Vesper fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more! Don't think you've already done this: I really like the idea of Bond and Q running into an alive!Vesper. Bonus points if it's in a room full of people and they have to be perfectly civil! Maybe Bond and Q aren't together, but are flirting enough to almost be together or smthing (maybe one of the two definitely wants it to happen) and Bond has to make a decision. (Of course, I'd like a 00Q ending but angst away dear if that is what your muse calls for :D) Thank you so much!!!! - blueskycloud9

They went out for drinks with relative frequency; Bond considered Q the closest friend he had ever managed to sustain in MI6. Friends were a rare commodity, and Bond valued him greatly.

Q was gently flirtatious, not too confrontational, very endearing. Bond knew Q was trying to get courage together, and was happy to watch him, let him gather the nerve. “And truly, it was an abortive piece of…”

“James?”

Not that voice. No. _No_.

Bond twisted around, eyes focusing on the only woman who had ever managed to get into his head, damage what was there and change him beyond recognition. Q’s inhale was sharp and almost imperceptible; he had read Bond’s files, then. He knew the woman as much as Bond did. He probably knew ever facet of _her_ past, too.

“Vesper,” Bond breathed, eyes going slightly wide. “How are you alive?”

“A story for another time,” she breathed at him, lips brushing his ear. Bond pushed her away slightly, standing a touch too fast, Q’s fingers clasped around his drink with a closed, cold expression. “I need to speak to you.”

Bond was rendered speechless. Q was unbelievably still; literally, the man could have been carved from marble. “Why are you here?” Bond asked quietly; the room was still spinning, people laughing and drinking, and somehow everything had also managed to completely stop.

“I was here by chance,” Vesper told him; Q watched as she leaned in towards Bond’s ear again, speaking quietly, her eyes darting to Q in a way that expressed that she was winning whatever strange battle they were fighting for Bond. Q naturally couldn’t hear whatever she was saying; he could only read his expression, the closed, defensive glances.

“You lied to me,” Bond said, loud enough for Q to catch it; Q wondered whether it was morally incorrect to tap into the communications devices he had hooked to Bond, deciding on balance to let Bond play it himself. It would be Bond’s call.

“Q?”

Q looked at Bond, his expression entirely impassive. He had no interest in speaking to, or associating with, Vesper Lynd. She had been exonerated, but she had nonetheless caused a great deal of damage, chaos that Q would not forgive. She was nothing to do with him, everything to do with Bond.

 _Please don’t_ , he thought to himself, as the heavy-lidded, aesthetically perfect woman smiled sideways at him, mocking.

Bond looked surprisingly lost. Q had never seen Bond look like that, like he had no idea how to deal with the world around him, with what it had thrown at him. “Ten minutes,” he asked Q, voice level. Q watched him. Bond knew, he _knew_.

He nodded, returning attention to his drink. Bond led Vesper away, leaving Q behind in a room that suddenly seemed far too loud, far too oppressive. Ten minutes, and he was leaving. Bond knew that.

Q stared at his watch. Minutes trickled by very slowly, he finished his drink. Bond’s martini – the martini _named after_ the woman he had just led out the building – stood untouched.

A soft, sad sigh. Q had genuinely believed, once, that he stood a chance with James Bond, the extraordinary being that was James Bond.

He pulled on his jacket, slid out of his chair, walked to the exit. He wanted to disappear in peace, now. Return to MI6 and work until the world had disappeared, speak to Bond in the morning as though nothing had ever happened, as though he wasn’t hurting, as though this wasn’t wrong.

“Leaving?”

“Is she?” Q responded, not missing a beat. He turned; Bond was mercifully on his own. Q wasn’t convinced that he could put up with seeing Vesper again, if he was perfectly honest.

“Yes,” Bond replied quietly. Q raised an eyebrow.

Bond leaned forward, and kissed him. “Ah,” Q managed.

“I could have been waiting a while for you to finally ask,” Bond shrugged, kissing Q again, holding him close. “She’s nothing. Nothing at all any more. It’s passed. She lied to me, she took me apart. Any love I had died with her.”

Q wasn’t certain he believed it. Bond was a renowned liar, and he loved Vesper, once. He didn’t have a choice but to trust Bond. Trust that he had made his choice, trust that he wasn’t going to lie about this.

Q’s smile was beautiful, and his lips tasted of sharp alcohol and soft tea and gunpowder, and Bond brushed fingers of the slip of card Vesper had given him, and felt his brain split in half.

\---

“I’m sorry, can’t do tonight,” Bond replied; Q felt something in his chest slightly depress, ribs shifting inwards to strangle his heart. Bond gave out some odd excuse. Q didn’t buy it, quite. He wanted to know.

He shouldn’t. Of course he shouldn’t. But this was James Bond, and he was Q, and they didn’t trust anybody as a matter of course. It was their jobs. They couldn’t trust, not even their partners, their lovers.

Q watched Bond shift through London streets. He watched Bond slide into a bar, have a drink. He watched him disappear.

Nobody disappeared, not from Q. They had to try exceptionally hard to disappear. Bond was a good agent, but he was not perfect, and not against Q. Q typed quickly, narrowing down the CCTV, finding other angles; Bond didn’t want to be found, and there was nothing on the earth that could convince Q to find him more than Bond not _wanting_ to be found.

Bond sat at a table in the far corner, out of the usual CCTV range; Q manoeuvred a secondary camera through the window, scanning for heat signals, had a glance at Bond’s GPS in his shoulder, tertiary camera found via an accidental reflection the window of the bar.

Vesper. He had gone to Vesper. He had _lied_ , and gone to Vesper, and Q had no idea what in the hell he was supposed to think about it, given that Bond had started a relationship with Q _eleven days ago_.

Bond kissed her. Q stopped breathing.

-

“Good evening?” Q asked, his usual, flippant tone arching over the chasms of hurt he was feeling.

Bond shrugged. “Uninteresting. Needed time to myself.”

Q nodded, smiled his customary smile, made small-talk, cried for exactly ninety-four seconds when Bond left the office, stopped, took 002 through a difficult mission in Kuwait, didn’t leave HQ for over two days, and blocked every single call from Bond in the interim.

-

“ _Q, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied. It’s Vesper. She was… she was very important to me, and I needed to…_ ”

Q cut off the message. He didn’t need to hear it. He didn’t need to know how important Vesper had been, and how he would never be what she had been. How he would never be _enough_.

-

Q knew there was somebody in his flat. Whoever it was had tripped every single alarm, and probably thought themselves very clever. He pulled up the footage, and felt the bottom fall out of his stomach.

There was no need to bother MI6. He pulled out his handgun, pointed it at the sofa, where she sat waiting for him. “Get out,” he told her coldly. Vesper smiled at him, looking surprisingly unconcerned about the gun in her face. “Believe me, it would be a pleasure to shoot you.”

“He cares about you.”

Q primed the gun. She stood. Q hoped she could tell that he was in no joking mood. “Now,” he reiterated. She walked to the door. An ex-agent she may be, but there was nothing in the world that would prevent Q from shooting her.

“I’d go so far as to say he’s fallen in love with you.”

Q shot at the knot in his doorframe, and hit it. She noted that with interest, nodded, left.

Q locked down everything. He collapsed on his armchair. He buried his head in his hands. This was too much. This was too much to think about, or deal with. He didn’t want to do this in the slightest. He wanted Bond, without the baggage, and he would never have that.

He clicked the flashing light of his answering machine. “ _Q, could you call me? Please._ ”

Not now. Not _right now_. Later, maybe.

_…He’s fallen in love…_

Q had always hated not understanding, not knowing. He had never understood Bond. He certainly didn’t understand anything about this, what in the hell was going on with Vesper, with Bond.

Q breathed out slowly, dialled. They could work this out, there had to be some way of working this out.

“Bond?”

\---

“Q? Finally. Hello.”

“If ‘finally’ is your opening gambit, I’m sensing that this conversation will not go well,” Q noted, voice entirely flat. “You lied to me.”

Bond didn’t attempt to deny it, which was very wise indeed. “Yes,” he murmured. “Q, can I see you?”

Q closed his eyes, fingers gripping too-tightly around the phone. He wanted to see Bond, of course he did. He had wanted to see Bond practically every day since meeting him. Yet he couldn’t shake the constant, persistent images of _her_. She had been in _his flat_ , and he could still see her spectre, looming over what could have been a relationship.

“She came here,” Q told him. He could imagine Bond’s expression; utterly placid. He never betrayed shock, or any emotion whatsoever, if he could avoid. He had the world’s best poker face.

That thought led him cyclically back to Vesper, and he grimaced slightly to himself.

“What did she say?” Bond asked steadily.

Q considered lying. Bond had lied so much that really, an omission, or indeed outright lie, would not linger too badly in his conscience.

“She told me you may love me,” Q eventually said, keeping his tone flippant. It would not do for Bond to understand how important his response was, or how important even the _thought_ of Bond loving him was. He remained calm, composed. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the armrest, waiting for Bond to finally construct a goddamn sentence.

“Very true,” Bond told him; Q’s eyes flew open. “I may love you. We haven’t been together long, to tell you that as fact would be lying.”

Q exhaled, long and thin. “And do you love her?”

“I did,” Bond replied, and the lack of hesitation is immediately noted. “I don’t know if I do any more. It’s… been a while. I don’t know, Q.”

Bond continued to speak in Q’s ear, and all Q can actually focus on is the white noise his thoughts have blended into. He interrupts it, his throat sandpaper. “You don’t honestly love either of us, yet you love us both?”

The incessant babbling slowed to a stop; Bond hesitated for a moment, and then spoke slower, clearly, each word measured and designed for effect.

“Q. She’s my past. It’s difficult to forget that, when it appears from nowhere. I went back to her to reclaim something I lost, and as always, it was a bloody disappointment, isn’t it always with these things. Far worse. I also managed to lose you, the only person who I could start forecasting a future with.”

Q closed his eyes, breathed a few more times, trying to digest thoughts, any thoughts at all. Bond was obediently quiet too, which was nice. Any more noise, and Q’s brain was liable to implode. He pinched the bridge of his nose, glasses pushed halfway up his forehead awkwardly. “You can’t lie to me.”

“I won’t.”

“I said don’t lie,” Q returned instantly, with a wry smirk that translated to a low chuckle at the other end. Of course they were going to lie. Their entire worlds were built on lies. Just not on anything that mattered, anything of _importance_.

“Q…”

“Don’t keep talking, you were doing well,” Q sighed, cutting off Bond before he dug himself a grave even Q couldn’t think his way out of.“You’re going to have to grovel. Lovely speech you came out with, but I’m still not impressed. And needless to say, if I see her again, I shoot to kill.”

“Point taken,” Bond replied; Q could actually hear the slight lightness in his voice, the weakness of sheer relief. Q had not forgiven him. He was giving him a chance though; that would have to do. “Dinner?”

Bond had already lied. He was still lying. He would probably always lie. Q knew all of the above. It was simply a case of working out what was what. Bond didn’t love Vesper. He didn’t love Q either. But he could love either, had loved, would love.

Vesper was _alive_. His Vesper. The woman who had undone him entirely. He _wanted_ that past back; the days drifting through Venetian sun, her laughter, the edge of danger and possession she carried.

And then there was Q. The absolute converse of Vesper, and yet identical. In no way intentionally sexual, or seductive. Blankly, brutally honest, and worked in the dark caves of Q-branch.

They both held danger under their skins, close to their hearts. They were both merciless, and both had agendas that they didn’t care to reveal.

“ _The bitch is dead_ ,” Bond had said once, of Vesper. He had hated her with all the passionate intensity that he had loved her. Vesper was fire. So much heat, so much light, so much damage. The fire had faded back, back over the years.

Q was water. A soft, but inexorably insistent, presence. He couldn’t shake it. It was just there, like it always had been, only Bond had managed to only just find it.

He chose Q, because fire burns out. He chose Q, because water is ultimately stronger.

Yet whenever he sees Q, he starts to remember what it was like for his skin to burn, for blisters to form at contact, so light, so bright, so lethal, so beautiful and so _his_.


	9. The Near-Death fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I love your fills! I was wondering if you could write one where Bond is on a mission and he thinks he's about to die so he tells Q he loves him and everyone at Q-branch listen, the end is up to you : thank youuu <3 xx - anon

“Shit, _shit_ ,” Bond swears. Bond never swears, he never ever swears, which means something is wrong, something is too wrong to be fixed.

Q is both breathless and panting frantically. He has no idea which, and doesn’t care enough to examine it. “Bond, you should still be running, why the _fuck_ have you stopped running?” he asks, all over the place, watching Bond’s little dot stay exactly where it is.

“There’s nowhere to run to, they’ve blocked the exit,” Bond tells him simply. He is oddly calm about it, actually. He will be tracked down in a few moments, and that will be it. They will either kill him, or toy with him a little and _then_ kill him. It’s alright. It’s over either way.

“I’m sourcing you another way out, bear with me…”

“No time,” Bond says, quite accurately as it happens; they are on their way. “Q…”

“You’re revving up for a goodbye, and I’m not going to listen to you,” Q tells him quickly, typing out strings into computers, trying to find something, anything, everything, and there’s nothing. Everything has turned to hell.

“God _damn it_ Q, you will let me do this,” Bond shouts at him, and Q stops typing.

“James…”

“Thank you,” Bond tells him, as feet stampede towards him. He keeps his gun; if he shoots at them, there is a greater chance that they’ll kill him outright rather than try for a capture. “I love you.”

Q-branch turn to Q, a catalogue of faces, all shocked, all speechless.

Q is expressionless, lips slightly parted in a slight gasp. “I love you too,” he murmurs back; there is a silence, a rush of impending gossip that rushes out to them, and he doesn’t care. They’ve been together, naturally without telling a soul, for nearly a year. They’re secret agents; it wasn’t even that challenging.

Everything is vaguely blurry, as Q mouths _James_ , and everybody listens to the gunfire, to everything turn quiet, to the sudden wail of static as Bond is disconnected from them.

Q’s forehead crumples for a faint moment while nobody is watching, and then he is statuesque once more. Nobody sees his weakness, which is how he wants it.

There is a wail in the back of his skull, a scream that nobody can hear, that sucks all air from his lungs and makes it difficult to draw breath after breath, that leaves his heart beating too-loudly in his ears, blood trying to burst through his skin, basic bodily functions failing.

“We have an agent down,” Q says, after everybody has recovered from the static, once the silence crosses from oppressive into painful. He isn’t crying. He is too still. Nobody says a word. Nobody dares. “We need to ascertain status, and aim for extraction if still alive. It’s going to be a long night, ladies and gentlemen. I want M online once we have more secure information, and Tanner, if he’s available. Status of all teams currently active in the area, patched directly to me, if you would.”

He is calm, still.

He waits.

\---

“Updates?”

“We have a report that implies that Bond has been taken alive,” Q explained in a level voice; M watched him with an equally impassive expression. Everybody knew what had transpired in Bond’s final moments before going off-comms, and nobody seemed very keen on broaching the issue. “Another report states that he was killed. In other words, we have no reliable intelligence either way.”

“Dispatch a full unit to the location; if we can retrieve the body that would be preferable, if not, we will need to extract him,” M ordered; he was a formidable boss, when he wanted to be. He took care of agents, but knew when to stop. A useful skill.

“Done,” Q returned, still, gentle. M had never known a more extraordinary being; Q was an exceptional worker in terms of his innovation, but more than that, his work ethic was superb. He was mature on a completely impossible level, developed beyond his years, almost unearthly on occasion.

They now needed Bond back, to ensure the full emotional capacity of their young Quartermaster – one of his best skills. The ability to care, to emote. Previous Quartermasters were far less adept.

“Keep me informed,” M told him simply. Q nodded, walked out.

-

MI6 were directed to Bond’s body; once he was dead, there was no need for his captors to concern themselves further. Intelligence units would rarely bother with burial, or even burning a corpse, if they had already claimed responsibility for the kidnap.

Bond was just left in the warehouse he’d been tortured in. MI6 went in to pick him up. Curiously, Q hadn’t stopped smirking.

Cyanide capsules were often useless. Q, therefore, had created an alternative; a drug that forced the human body to imitate death. The captors would lose interest. It was a very hit and miss solution, but if an agent was facing almost-certain death – or was about to break under torture – it was their best option.

In this instance, Bond had been left. Maybe at other points, he wouldn’t. Bond had known, however, that they would kill him anyway; it was a risk worth taking. A chance, however slim, for survival.

-

Bond woke up feeling like absolute shit. An occupational hazard of his bodily functions slowing down to almost a complete stop. Not to mention the torture, and gunshot wound to the thigh.

“Hello Bond,” a cool, calm voice told him.

“Q?” Bond rasped. “I’m not dead.”

“I noticed,” Q snorted, and pressed a soft kiss to Bond’s forehead. Bond gave a deep, heartfelt groan. “You will feel like you’ve been hit by a truck for a little while. Time for a holiday.”

“With pleasure,” Bond mumbled, feeling consciousness slip away from him again. “I meant what I said, Q. Love you.”

“Yes,” Q replied, watching Bond’s eyes slide slowly shut again. “Love you too, Bond. Now get better, would you?”

Bond gave an antipathetic mumble of agreement, and passed out. Q was pathetically grateful that Bond was alive, was safe. He curled on the hospital chair by Bond’s bedside. He had been so calm, he had waited for days. His innovation had kept Bond alive, in the end.

He slept.


	10. The Iceskating fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James must lean iceskating for a mission, Q is very good at it cue FLUFF - placeofold

Q laced his skating boots with a level of expertise that seemed a little implausible; he looked over at Bond, and tutted. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

Bond snarled at him, staring at the boots as though they’d done him a personal wrong. Q rolled his eyes, kneeling in front of Bond and grabbing the boots. “ _Ow_ , Q,” Bond spat at him, as Q laced up Bond’s boots with unreasonable viciousness. Bond could literally feel his feet being crushed.

“You’re a double-oh agent, and you’re genuinely wincing in pain at skating boots?” Q asked, flatly sarcastic, giving the boots another sadistic pull. “There.”

“I can’t stand.”

“Bollocks. If she can,” Q said, indicating a girl no older than five, who was just coming off the rink. “Then you damn well can too.”

Q stood, hobbling with not a tremendous amount of elegance to the edge of the rink. “Coming?” he asked, in a tone that made Bond want to kill him, very slowly. Bond growled, hobbling – with less elegance than Q, even – and tried to stand on the ice.

Q had cleared the ice rink; the previous open session had ended, and paying off the private skaters who usually rented it out was not difficult. The Quartermaster himself had volunteered to tutor Bond; ice skating was a relatively important facet of his impending mission. While Bond did not need to be perfect, he needed to at least be competent.

At present, he was emulating Bambi.

Q, meanwhile, took a breath, and allowed his body to remember. Motion was simple; he completed a few blindingly quick circuits, before attempting tricks. Basic toeloops, backwards crossovers, working to his piece de resistance; a double axle, Q spinning through the air and landing flawlessly.

Bond was just happy he had remained standing thus far.

Q sped up to him with worrying speed, sliding to a somewhat showy stop inches from Bond’s face, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose. “I hate you,” Bond told him. Q smirked.

“I know. Place one foot in front of the other, don’t lock your knees. Point your feet inwards to stop. Conversely, if you point them outwards, you will probably propel yourself forward, and if you don’t control it, you’ll end up doing the splits on the ice and trust me, it hurts.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Your death threats aren’t that imaginative,” Q noted, and took pity on Bond. Mostly for self-preservation reasons.

Q extended his hand with a small smile. “Come on, James,” he smiled. “Let me show you. Unless you think an old dog can’t learn new tricks.”

Bond was definitely going to kill him.

\---

“Okay. Start by just trying to move in a straight line, hmm?” Q asked, voice kind, calm. Bond wanted to rip Q’s goddamn head off, but to be quite honest, he wasn’t sure he had the skating ability to get there.

“How?” he asked lividly.

Q demonstrated; he turned his feet outwards, moving forward in a oval bubble-shape, feet coming apart and joining again. “Bend your knees, propel yourself forwards, loop your feet back together. That last bit is important. It will make sure you stop.”

Bond turned his feet outwards, bent his knees. Propelled himself forward. Came in contact with the ice so fast he yelped with shock.

“Yes. I did mention the feet-back-together part,” Q commented wryly. Bond swore under his breath briefly, making Q snort with laughter; Q extended a hand, helping Bond make his exceptionally inelegant way back onto his feet.

Bond tried again. This time was a fair bit more successful; he stayed standing, although his legs went out too far, and crashed again on the way in. He did it a few more times, feeling altogether more comfortable, while Q showed off with a series of oscillating movements that once again made Bond feel mildly homicidal.

“Lovely,” Q said approvingly, as Bond moved himself across the ice with absolutely no grace. “Let’s try one foot in front of the other, hmm? Remember you’re trying to glide. You’re not stomping against the floor in your usual ineffable fashion.”

Bond gave a vague snarl. He had roller skated a lifetime ago, and figured the principle was just about the same; his first steps were tentative, and really not the most _gliding_ of motions, but at least he was moving forward, and not falling over.

Q got bored quickly. He made sure Bond wasn’t about to fall over, then darted around the rink at nauseating speed, catching back up to the hapless agent; he dived past, heading to the centre of the rink, and starting to spin on the spot.

Bond watched, utterly transfixed, barely able to put a foot in front of the other, while Q became a cyclone.

He pulled out of it, another showy stop keeping him upright, and Bond wondered absent-mindedly how he wasn’t ridiculously dizzy.

“You’re doing well,” Q told Bond kindly, as he swore slightly, nearly teetering over. “So. If you catch me, you kiss me.”

“What?”

Q smirked wickedly. “You’re getting the hang of it now, so lets try something more ambitious – an incentive for you to keep going.”

Bond’s eyes widened, as Q started skating fluidly backwards, looking like evil incarnate, taunting Bond without apology, biting his lips slightly in a way he _knew_ Bond found appealing.

Alright then. Here went nothing.

\---

Bond was growing more irate by the second. He also hadn’t fallen over in a while, which both he and Q considered progress of some variant.

Q danced inches from him, still skating backwards while Bond struggled with going forwards; he started showing off, doing little tricks while moving backwards, and Bond continued to steadily move in the same direction.

Eventually – predictably – Q began to grow cocky. “Come on, old man,” he snorted, using the one nickname Bond truly would not abide, simply because he believed Bond wouldn’t be able to catch him.

Q got just a fraction too close. Bond pretty much dived at him.

The pair went flying towards the centre of the rink, Q moving quickly to keep both of their legs pointing the other way – skating blades could be bloody painful things. “That was a _bloody stupid_ thing to do!” he told Bond crossly, trying to pick himself up; Bond, in the first dextrous movements he’d managed since getting on the ice, pinned Q to the floor.

“I believe I’m owed a kiss.”

Q snorted. “You were supposed to _catch me_ , not chuck me to the ground the moment I got within range.”

“In which case, state your parameters far more carefully next time,” Bond told him; Q put up only a meagre protest as Bond leant down, and kissed him.

Q moaned into his mouth, and Bond felt a rather urgent twitch from his trousers. “ _Really_?” Q asked, breaking away to laugh breathlessly. “In an _ice rink_?!”

Bond was somewhat stunned; Q really didn’t appreciate just how compelling he was. The sight of him in motion – while admittedly the most frustrating thing Bond had encountered in a while – was also intensely beautiful. Knowing that the fragment of beauty he was watching was _his_ – well, it was hardly surprising that he couldn’t resist.

Q pushed him off, making his way to standing with ease. Bond took a moment longer, Q’s hands helping him quite considerably. “You’re beautiful,” Bond said, deathly serious.

Q smiled, winked cheekily, and as always, drove Bond mad: “Tell me about it.”


	11. The Phobia fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey :) Could you please do a fic where Q has a crazy phobia of some sort and Bond finds out and torments him? (I love your blog by the way!) - shertealocked

Bond discovered Q’s phobia quite by accident. They were in bed, post-coital and relaxed. Q was half-asleep, curled against Bond’s chest, fingers laced with his. Bond trailed fingers over Q’s soft form, before making the apparently phenomenal mistake of stroking the inside of Q’s wrist.

Q let out a harassed cry and flinched back, hitting Bond around the head with his other hand, the other hand coming to join it, batting Bond off him. Bond caught Q’s arm easily, holding him in place. He waited until the tension had fallen from Q’s body to catch his eye.

His expression quite clearly read _and what just happened, exactly_?!

“Carpophobia,” Q muttered, wide-awake, and not very happy. “Fear of wrists. Well. I mostly just hate people touching my wrists. The inside part of my wrists.”

Bond blinked. Looked at Q’s wrists. Burst into laughter.

“I’m quite serious, Bond. I hate it. It really upsets me,” Q told him; his voice was deathly serious, which really, only served to make Bond laugh harder. Bond was still holding Q in place; he grappled at Q, thumb running across the exposed wrist, blue threaded lines visible through the gossamer-thin cover of skin.

Q ducked out of Bond’s grip, hit him on the side of the head with the blade of his hand – Bond was certainly caught by surprise, was quite easily pinned. “You do not do that,” Q hissed at him, angrier than Bond had seen him in a long while.

Bond relaxed. Q didn’t fall for it. Bond used his quite notable physical strength to literally _flip_ Q over; he yelled in shock and fury, battling frantically, kicking out at Bond.

Bond pressed his lips to Q’s wrist. Q was reaching hysteria; Bond watched, slightly confused, as Q started to cry. Manipulative _bastard_ ; he knew he could cry on demand, he knew he looked appallingly vulnerable when he cried, and that Bond simply didn’t allow him to cry if he could fix it.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said, scooping Q into his arms; Q had become remarkably fluid in his arms, Bond cradling arms around him and apologising softly, until Q glared up at him, and sniffled once, sharply.

“Twat. Don’t pick on people about their phobias, or so help me, I’ll find yours.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have any.”

Maybe it was his imagination, but Q’s smile suddenly turned absolutely lethal – and somewhere, hanging in the air, was a single word:

 _Snails_.

\---

Bond was monumentally bad at appreciating other people’s weaknesses. He was considerably worse at pandering to a phobia he deemed entirely ridiculous.

He ended up with a constantly mounting fascination over Q’s wrists – mainly because Q was absolutely terrified of anybody touching them. Bond had suffered through some quite impressively skilled punches from Q by now, in his aim to desensitise his lover from a phobia that was just ridiculous.

Q checkmated him in less than ten minutes.

Bond walked into the flat to a strange smell. Q sat on the sofa, looking ridiculously innocent and entirely merciless, a plate on the table with a metal bowl over the top of it. “What’s…?”

“You refuse to leave me alone about my wrists,” Q told him firmly. “If you’re going to try and break my phobia, I’m going to do the same.”

He lifted up the bowl with a flourish. Bond’s eyes widened; Q had cooked snails. He was faced with an entirely bloody _plate_ of snails.

Bond had never admitted to his phobia of snails. Q didn’t seem too worried by Bond’s lack of admission; he’d set this up regardless, absolutely certain in his knowledge. “You can touch my wrist, you can wrap your hands around them if you like – but only if you eat snails.”

Nausea. Definitely nausea.

“Those are your terms?” Bond checked, for clarity.

Q’s nod was sharp and efficient. “If you keep doing this, you will find snails _everywhere_. I swear, I will make your life a living hell. Your fucking _gun_ will _fire snails_. So get it over with. Eat snails, I’ll let you desensitise my carpophobia.”

Bond stared at the plate, feeling his forehead break out in a cold sweat. No. No way in hell. _Absolutely_ not.

“Point received,” he rasped, keeping himself as far from the bloody snails as he could. “Get them out. I’ll leave you alone.”

Q nodded, picked up the plate, took it into the kitchen – Bond collapsed onto the sofa, his breath surprisingly quick.

Q tipped the snails into the bin, and grinned. That was just too easy.

\---

When Q’s hands brush his, inviting Bond to hold onto him, Bond pulls away from him. Q had noticed it increasingly; Bond had a notable aversion to touching any part of lower arms, from the elbow to the tips of fingers.

It took Q a few days to notice that Bond was Making A Point. Bond was not the subtlest human being alive a lot of the time; Making A Point was Q’s phrase for when Bond decided that he was going to be emotionally and/or verbally constipated, and thus not actually discuss whatever was wrong.

“It’s about the wrists, isn’t it?” Q sighed.

Bond shot him a looked like a kicked puppy, and nodded. “I miss it,” he said with a sigh. “Your hands are so beautiful, and…”

“James, you were able to hold my hand and keep going with life like a _normal person_ without lavishing attention on the _one part of my body_ where it unnerves me for _anybody_ to touch,” Q explained wearily. “You don’t have to act like a nutter over it.”

“I don’t want to upset you…”

Q took a breath, exhaled slowly. Bond was clearly going to remain upset. It was intensely impractical, as far as fears went, if he was completely honest. A lot of sex play could be somewhat more difficult, for example, when wrists were out of action. _Bond handcuffing him to the bed, making him beg and scream for more…_

Q held out his wrist to Bond, and closed his eyes.

Bond’s lips started on the tips of his fingers, tongue dancing out to lick a stripe over the pad. Q kept his breath steady, as Bond’s lips closed around two fingers, sucking both of them together, doing obscene and rather distracting things with his tongue that were _deliberately_ reminiscent and sent a hot spike of want to Q’s groin.

Bond’s confident touch grazed the thick muscle under Q’s thumb, lips and tongue worshipping his hand in a very new, very lovely way. Q’s mind blurred, soft touches undoing him in such an odd fashion, unexpectedly erotic.

Bond’s lips rested over his pulse point. Q’s heart hammered strongly, the rhythm too-quick, slowing as he became more used to Bond there. Bond’s tongue flicked over thin skin, the arteries feeling too-obvious, Q’s fear tangible and saddening.

He pulled away, Q reeling. “I never want to hurt or frighten you,” Bond told him gently, releasing Q’s hand. “Know that, if nothing else.”

Q nodded mutely, and let Bond’s arms slide around him, holding him close.


	12. The Pregnant!Bond fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I love your writing!! :D Would you write something where Bond didn't know he was pregnant with Q's baby and he looses it on a mission, then once back they talk and decide to try again? (if it's possible with sexy-tiems). Thank you! - anon

Medical were Not Happy, in the most literal way possible. The gossip spread between the head of Medical and his two subordinates; nobody else would be able to connect randomised test results, to the double-oh agent currently waiting downstairs.

The Head of Medical slid through the door of the Medical Area, greeting Bond, nodding awkwardly. “I have some… news,” he managed eventually. Bond’s eyes narrowed; something was wrong, something odd.

That was so grimly understating matters it was almost amusing.

-

It was such a small chance. Really, it was such an unbelievably small chance that Bond hadn’t even _considered_ that it was a possibility.

“You miscarried?” Q echoed, eyes ever so slightly wide. “That indicates that you were, at some stage…” he stopped, trying to find the right word, gesticulating suddenly with a strangled laugh.

“Pregnant,” Bond managed, throat feeling very closed. “And I have the capability to be so again.”

Q collapsed backwards on the sofa, staring disconcertingly. He looked at Bond, eyes flicking around his body. “Pregnant,” Q breathed.

Both of them let out long, whistling exhales, in almost perfect unison. “Okay,” Q said eventually, twisting too-suddenly towards Bond, making him jump. “So. You can get pregnant. Do you want kids?”

“Not something I’ve thought about much, I really thought I’d be dead a lot sooner,” Bond said honestly

Q rolled his eyes. “You’re going to have to retire soon anyway. And you know I want kids at some point,” Q managed, pitching his words carefully. “Bond…”

Bond was very still, suddenly. “I can see where this is going,” he muttered, cagy. “Q…”

“I completely understand if…”

“Q, I’m still trying to adapt to this idea myself,” Bond said, sounding mildly harassed. “Give me time, alright?”

Q’s face quirked in a lovely little grin. “Deal,” he said, the smile slipping again. “Bond, are you alright?”

Bond shrugged slightly; he wasn’t ‘ok’, per se. He had been pregnant. He had miscarried. He could have children. Not just adopted, but children that were genuinely his, his and whoever he was with. He could have children with Q. No surrogacy, or artificial insemination. A child entirely _theirs_.

Really, when put that way, he knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted Q. He wanted to be with Q for the rest of his life, and have children, have a life. Leave MI6 before they killed him. Live.

“Talk later, hmm?” Q asked, from a long way away. Bond nodded absentmindedly, returning Q’s kiss distractedly; children. Having _children_.

It would take some adjustment.

\---

Bond retired from MI6 eight months after his first miscarriage. He did so, because he discovered that he’d managed to fall pregnant once again, and didn’t want to risk losing it again.

Q was unbelievably excited.

Actually, Q was becoming borderline unbearable. He was insistent on scans every few weeks, checking the baby’s development, researching more than Bond knew was available to find. It was actually slightly frightening – Q knew more than Bond about what was going on in his own body.

The bump started to show after a handful of months. Q smile was brighter than Bond could ever remember seeing it, placing a hand on the bump that held their child. _Their_ child.

Q, after all, had resigned himself to never having children that were biologically his. He knew he was gay from a relatively young age; there was little to no chance that if he had children, they would contain both his and his partner’s genes. Male pregnancy was so, unbelievably rare.

The idea of having children that were his, and Bond’s, was wonderful to him. It was more important than he could express, for reasons he didn’t wholly understand, and knowing that their own child was growing between them, developing day by day, was extraordinary.

Bond allowed him to be overexcited, because damn it, he was quite excited too. Terrified, admittedly – labour was not going to be a particularly pleasant experience.

They found out they were having a girl. Q took them both out for dinner. Much later, they lay in bed; Bond sighed out long breaths, Q next to him, curled on his side, arm draped over Bond’s chest.

“Elisabeth?” Bond murmured.

“ _God_ no,” Q snorted quietly, kissing Bond’s jawline softer than air.

“Claire?”

“Sasha?”

“Only if we want her to be bullied,” Bond snorted; Q agreed with a touch of reluctance.

It was beginning to turn light by the time they fell asleep, names still hesitating on their tongues.

\---

“Eve, if you say a goddamn word, I’ll kill you in the slowest way I know how,” Bond growled at her.

“… And I’ll happily make sure nobody can ever pin it on James,” Q continued, looking a touch smug. Eve just looked… well, mostly confused, and also like she was inches away from falling about laughing.

M appeared at the door, beckoned the pair of them in. “Hello, both of you,” he greeted; he was always wary, when Bond and Q appeared together. Usually they wanted something monstrously large in budgeting, or were announcing some aspect of their relationship which needed paperwork, and for M to rifle through the almost unused files of ‘what to do with employees in relationships’.

There were no files whatsoever dictating protocol for a double-oh agent in a relationship, _let alone_ a relationship with their Quartermaster. M had been compelled to order a complete overhaul of the existing rules, with Bond and Q as they were.

“M, we need to discuss something with you,” Q said lightly, legs crossed.

M glanced between them both. “What’s happened?” he asked cagily.

“I am applying for maternity leave,” Bond told M, with a note of reluctance; he really didn’t want to have to explain this to any more people than necessary. Eve only knew because she and Q were quite close friends, and Bond had only agreed on the proviso that Eve did not say a word about it to him.

She had started smirking when Bond walked into MI6, hence the elaborate death threat.

“Maternity?”

“Yes,” Q stepped in; he had found this far easier to discuss than Bond, given that he really didn’t find it that peculiar. “Bond is pregnant, a few months gone.”

M was quietly relieved; he had honestly thought Bond was just in less good shape. “Pregnancy. Well. Congratulations are in order,” he said, managing a smile; he had heard of male pregnancies, an anomalous but not unheard of circumstance. In addition, the expression on Bond’s face when he didn’t even query the statement was priceless.

“Will that be alright?” Bond asked gruffly.

“Of course. I’m assuming you won’t wish to pursue active missions after the birth?” M asked casually. “I can explore options for your return, if you would like? Q, are you prepared to remain here?”

“I may take a fair amount of my annual leave in one go,” Q quipped dryly. “Otherwise, yes. Absolutely.”

“That sounds fine. You do, of course, have the full MI6 Medical facility at your disposal, should you require,” M offered. It was an intensely useful offer; MI6 Medical had far better training and experience than most hospitals, and would take to the challenge of Bond’s pregnancy with great interest.

“Thank you,” Q said quietly, smiling at Bond – his expression remained carefully neutral

“I will keep the information confidential,” M assured him; Bond’s nod was all he needed to know. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

The pair left together, leaving M rather stunned. James Bond, _pregnant_. Not something he would have ever imagined. Q was the more obvious type; but then, M couldn’t possibly comment. It would have been damn near _disastrous_ to lose their Quartermaster.

M sighed, and got to the business of the paperwork Q and Bond had once again managed to cause him.


	13. The Silva/M fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I know you guys normally write 00Q, but I had a craving. Do you think you could do a younger Silva who's trying to get young M to go out with him? I totally understand I it's out of your comfort zone and don't want to do it! :3 P.S, I love both your works!! - anon

M was technically married, in her late fifties, had a grown-up daughter, and was wholly devoted to her work, and her work alone. The latter point would mean the end of the former point within a few years.

Rodriguez, as he was known back then, was a Spanish import. M had picked him up herself, recognising his excellence both as an active agent, and as a computer hacker. Really, Q-branch should have had him; yet everybody conceded that a talented computer expert who was also trained for difficult missions could be useful.

Not to mention that everybody consistently underestimated the importance of technology.

M found flowers on her desk. The surge of irritation was understandable; she was in Hong Kong, with only a handful of agents. Most of them could demonstrate some professionalism from day to day. Rodriguez, evidently, could not.

“To brighten your desk,” he said, in a thick Spanish drawl. M stared at him with the full force of her dislike; quite a formidable thing. She disliked most people, mistrusted almost everyone, and Rodriguez was stubborn, persistent, and unprofessional.

“My desk is gleaming in the sunlight, now kindly remove them,” she shot at him, her voice laden with hyperbolic sarcasm. Rodriguez smiled unapologetically, and left them precisely where they were.

-

“Would you care for a drink?”

M closed her eyes, and took a breath. It really wouldn’t do to shoot her subordinate, regardless of their behaviour; she was hardly renowned for her patience, but this would be something of a blot.

“I believe you should be working?” she asked primly, organising papers on her desk in lieu of anything else distracting to do. Rodriguez leaned over the desk, face inches from her own. “Any further infringement of my personal space, and I will have you killed.”

Rodriguez leaned back with a rather camp ‘ooh’. “How interesting.”

“Leave my office,” she told him, the rising note of anger becoming prevalent. “ _Now_.”

He smirked, winked at her. M waited until he had left, to scan the incoming information on her computer; matters were becoming more complex, and – perhaps ironically – the information was all settling around Rodriguez.

This was not going to end well. M rested her head in her hands, and began to think.

\---

Rodriguez looked unapologetically delighted to have been called into M’s office; he stood opposite her, his smile slow and calculating, eyes glinting.

“Sit down,” she told him sharply; he watched Rodriguez sink slowly into the chair, legs angled suggestively with emphasis on the crotch. She repressed the urge to roll her eyes with exceptional difficulty.

Rodriguez cocked his head at her expression, her tone of voice. “And what’s upset you today?” he purred, leaning slightly forward.

“I have intelligence that indicates some… rather irregular work, across the Chinese databases. According to Q-branch, it is highly reminiscent of your working style,” M told him, eyes cold.

Rodriguez continued to smile; if anything, the smile stretched wider. “And if so?” he drawled at her, hand on her desk; M was reminded of a snail, creeping closer, repulsive and constant.

“You do not have the relevant authority to be doing this kind of work,” M told him, keeping her anger carefully swallowed. “This is entirely beyond your remit. I have had to deal with the Chinese on our backs already; if this linked through to us…”

“It won’t be,” Rodriguez interrupted; he still seemed the epitome of calm, while M was internally seething.

M took a breath. This was liable to get messy; the Chinese had good people on their side, people with the capabilities to track down the source of their security breaches. If that happened – and M had a strong suspicion it would – then MI6 would need to pay a price.

She could say, with relative certainty, that the price would be Rodriguez.

M had, as yet, no conception of just how far-reaching the fallout from this would be.

_**\---  
** _


	14. The Bond!M fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are really wonderful writers! I was wondering, could you do a fic where James becomes M some years later? (he can't be an active agent forever after all). It can be 00Q, or something the old M planned, or Mallory and Bond get along surprisingly well after Skyfall, etc. Anything really! Thank you!!! - anon

“Bond, can you report to my office?” Q asked, his voice taught, almost brittle. “We have an urgent situation.”

Bond did as instructed; there were some times that Q’s tone just boded badly, and this was one such occasion. He walked briskly past the Q-branch kids, standing in the doorway of Q’s office. “Shut the door,” Q told him.

Bond obeyed. “Yes?”

“You may need to take a seat,” Q told him, looking more stressed than Bond had ever seen him.

“No. What’s happened?”

“M is dead. I am currently the highest-ranking official left alive in MI6, so it has fallen to me to inform you that you’re being promoted,” Q told him, in a steady rush. “Apparently, both previous M’s wanted you to inherit their role, in the case of their ultimately demises; they drew up a plan of succession before she died, and you are it.”

Bond was speechless. Under any other circumstances, Q would have cherished every instance of that particular happenstance. As it was, he needed Bond to accept the role, so he could have some of his monstrous workload taken off him, and everything could revert to some form of normality.

“I can’t be M,” Bond said stupidly, looking like he’d been hit very hard over the head.

Q gave a somewhat weary sigh. “Look, there are obviously other people who can be considered. However, your predecessors believed MI6 should be run by those who know its operating procedures, and the real-life effects of decisions. M is a vital role. You are the longest-serving agent who hasn’t died yet. You understand the workings of MI6 better than most.”

“Tanner?!”

Q rolled his eyes. “He has enough work to be getting on with, and has consistently declined much input in active assignments. Leadership would not suit him, in a position like this. I need to work with somebody competent, who I trust. It has been run past the Powers that Be, and they’re also happy with you potentially taking charge.”

“I’ll be your senior officer?” Bond smirked.

“Please don’t use that as your only reason to accept the highest position of responsibility in the UK intelligence services,” Q told him drily.

Bond snorted slightly. He had honestly never seen this coming. Yet; he was a good agent, and a very experienced one. He knew priorities, was wholly dedicated to his job. He would make a very good M.

“Board meeting at eleven. Attend, if you would. I will be briefing afore-mentioned higher powers on the current status of MI6, and you will be accepting your new position.”

“You believe I’ll accept?” Bond asked, watching Q carefully. Q looked up at him, smiled that slightly arrogant smile Bond detested and adored in equal parts.

“No. I _know_ you’ll accept. You’ll relish the challenge,” Q told him, slightly smug.

He was right, of course. Active missions were almost impossible at his age; he was mostly on dull, reconnaissance-based jobs. He needed adrenaline, the thrill of his job, assignments. The paperwork would be overwhelmingly tedious, but Mallory had often pawned it off onto others; he was better active, too.

And in any case, perhaps it was time to reshape the role of M. Minimise red tape and interfering from government officials who failed to understand, and drag MI6 into the 21st Century. Q had started, Mallory had helped; Bond was in a position where he could truly complete it.

Q smiled to himself. Bond was so, ridiculously readable.

\---

Bond was settling into his newfound role as M with less difficulty than he had imagined. He had assumed a melee of red tape, irritable agents, any number of incidents; in practise, he could happily pawn most of the paperwork onto other agents.

True, Moneypenny wasn’t delighted. Bond had more interesting things to be considering, however, then Moneypenny’s ruffled ego.

After the first few weeks had worn off in terms of the sheer quantities of work, everything calmed. “Q, I need the blueprints for your new trackers on my desk by the end of the day,” he told the harassed young man, for whom the novelty of Bond being in charge had somewhat worn off.

“And whose ‘day’ is that? I’ve been working thirty-six hours solid, my ‘day’ is a bit of a moveable concept,” Q snapped at him. Bond couldn’t resist the slight snort of malice; Q was rather enjoyable to be in charge of.

“Seven this evening,” Bond said, earning a yell of anger from Q. “This is urgent, as you may have gathered.”

“You’re a _nightmare_.”

“Don’t insult me, I’m your boss,” Bond reminded Q, and rang off the conversation; as he did so, an alert whizzed through. Williams and 003, field agents working in Bangkok, needed a bail-out. “Q, me again – I’m coming down to Q-branch, I need all information on the 003/Williams Bangkok mission. Details on their way now.”

“Understood,” Q replied quickly, calmly. “I can stream it directly to you, if you’d prefer?”

“No, I want to be there in person,” Bond said, with a slight shake of his head; perhaps it was more old-fashioned rather than new, but really, having several people across the globe working together would be easiest if _some_ were in the same room. Q-branch was a lift ride away; it was best to have the appropriate personnel available in one place.

“I’ll retain Tanner,” Q mused aloud; Tanner, in the background, voiced a quiet affirmative. “Details received, I’ll have our end of the situation dealt with by the time you get here.”

“Thank you,” Bond told Q, already moving down to Q-branch. This was why he had taken M’s job. He could still be involved. The adrenaline was surging already, making this easier, clearing his vision; he didn’t need to shoot anything to be a damn good M, have a finger on the pulse of British Intelligence, not be utterly redundant.

“M,” Q said by way of a greeting. “We have units we can dispatch, they cannot reach either target for another few hours, however. We…”

The words drove into Bond, his brain calculating options. Q pushed up his glasses, awaited instructions.

From there, well. It was easy.


	15. The Kidnapped!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James or Q is kidnapped and tortured. They're close to giving up and telling vital information, but the other one is talking to them through the comm system while it's happening, and can hear everything that's going on. - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture, explicit violence.

He is alone.

They give him time, once in a while, just time on his own. The isolation would drive him mad, usually, but Q has the tiniest fragment of technology on his side, and it is the only thing left that is keeping him tethered to anything sane at all.

Water drips off his hair in icy drips, his body torn between marrow-deep shivers and nausea that throws him constantly off-balance. He had spent a while, once, documenting injuries; working out how, where, why, the effects, how he would recover, if he would recover.

Q lost track a while ago. His head hurts, most of all.

 _We are coming, Q. Now is not the moment to give up_.

Answering feels a long way beyond him, and in any case, there is nothing he could say. He will not bend, he will not break, he _can’t_ , but he wants to. More than anything imaginable, he wants to.

There are footsteps outside the door. Hot, red panic ignites.

“Don’t make me do this again, please, not again,” he sobs, pathetic, praying for somebody somewhere to get him out, soon, now, _please_. “James, I can’t do this any more, I can’t. You have to get me out, you have to…”

The door slams. Q flinches, the movement causing pain to kaleidoscope over his thin body. _Q, listen to me. We have found your location. I need you to calm down_.

Q is panicking to the extent of nearly vomiting. When they start manoeuvring him upwards, to the chains dangling from the ceiling above him, he does vomit – thin strings of bile leak from him, and he is half-aware that he is still begging for them not to.

 _Q, we’re nearly here. Hold on. You have to stay calm, hyperventilating won’t help_.

He wants to, jesus, he really does, but he hurts everywhere and he can’t hurt any more, he will not survive any more pain. It is quite simple, actually, at this stage. His brain is about to fall through the cracks, the gaping great holes that have been made in his body.

_You are the Quartermaster of MI6. Q, calm down, right now. Breathe for me, steadily. You’re fine, Q. I promise, we will be with you soon. Do not let them take anything from you, not now – we’re minutes away from you._

They ask questions. They start beating him, with a metal rod this time. Q jerks spasmodically, can hear a familiar and beautiful voice, and cries desperately. He hates what he has become, but for god’s sake, everybody has a _fucking_ breaking point, even him, even Bond, _everybody_.

_Q, listen – that’s us, that’s your extraction team en route._

A small part of him wants to note that the ‘extraction team’ had better have some damn good medical training. Another part notes that Bond clearly wasn’t allowed on said team, probably due to being emotionally compromised. A final part notes that they have microseconds before Q will give these fuckers the entire world to just _stop hurting_.

“M’sorry,” he rasps, tasting liquid rust.

 _Don’t you dare. You are not sorry, Q, you are still fighting. We’re almost with you, just keep going, a little longer_.

Q wants to tell Bond he doesn’t _have_ a ‘little longer’. He doesn’t have a moment. He doesn’t have anything left, and he doesn’t care any more. Without Bond, he would have given up days ago. Bond has been there, day and night, talking to him. A voice, telling him to keep fighting.

At first, it was welcome, fired up the resistance that lived in his stomach and forced him to strength. Now, it is just something to tether himself to, and he hopes that is enough. It has been enough, so far. He isn’t sure it’ll last much longer.

When the door slams, gunshots start. His vision is fading, and he lets it. _Told you_ , Bond notes in his ear.

The last thing Q does, before passing out, is laugh.

\---

Q slides back into consciousness reluctantly, and with almost no memory. He has a dim recollection of voices and words and shouting, and more hurt than he knew he could feel, and then a blank space, a haven of anaesthesia where nobody could touch him.

“James,” he whispers, through a voice hoarse and rasping. His lips crack when he moves them, hot liquid rust spilling over his tongue; the moisture is welcome, and he is long-since used to the taste of his own blood.

_Q? Q, we have a problem. I’m sorry, we are still trying to reach you, the extraction team were ambushed._

Q’s eyes open a fraction, the dim light blindingly intense. He can see corpses by the door, black fatigues, MI6 issue for extraction units. Only four; a small unit then, MI6 evidently thought they would not meet with that much resistance. Idiots.

His captors will have bolstered security. Moving Q is too risky; he is unlikely to survive the move, quite frankly, and MI6 could intercept them if they moved into the open.

Everybody knows where Q is. Nobody can bloody _get to him_ , however. Q lets out a quietly hollow, wounded cry.

_Q, listen to me. You’re going to be alright. They don’t want you dead. You just need to wait it out._

“I’m sorry,” Q whimpers, as the door opens in front of him; he stares at the bodies of the people supposed to save him, and half-recognises them without knowing how. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I _can’t_ …”

There are hands on Q’s shoulder, and he screams brokenly; one of them is holding a blowtorch, a _fucking_ blowtorch, and Q’s vision whites in incoherent panic. They lift him again, wrenching the swollen, tender flesh where his arm had been dislocated and then badly relocated, tugging him to the chains, and Q talks without conscious intention:

“Access code 192 hyphen 726 hyphen Z26RH, code Q,” Q rasps.

Everything, mercifully, stops.

_Q, if you do this, there is no going back. I can’t guarantee your safety, you’ll have to go through an investigation if information is leaked…_

“I’m sorry,” Q says again, repeating the same words again and again, as they let him down from the chains, let him collapse in peace. His head is screaming, and this is wrong _for Queen and Country, I’m so sorry_ but he doesn’t have a choice, he has no choice any more.

He is given a bottle of water with a straw, and sobs again, wanting to taste anything that isn’t blood. He doesn’t recognise his own hands as they reach out, skeletal fingers closing around it, too weak to do more than slide it awkwardly closer. He can’t lift it by himself.

They ask more questions, and Q gives them the answers. He can hear Bond in his ear, relaying what information he gives to Q-branch, trying to work out some way of defending MI6 from itself.

He is allowed to sleep, allowed to rest. They throw a thin blanket over him, and Q shivers out the night, hating himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispers every once in a while, crying to himself.

_Q. It’s ok. It can be dealt with. Q-branch are on the case, and we’re deploying another team. I’m coming in this time, Q. We will get you out of there._

Bond is lying, and they both know that. The extraction team’s brief will have changed; get Q out, or ensure he cannot continue to compromise intelligence. Q-branch are aware that Q can give them back doors into the MI6 system, if they ask. Q could give them information to take down the world, and few would be able to get round him. This is _chaos_.

 _I’m here, Q. Keep calm. Not long now_.

“You said that last time,” Q mumbles to himself, and passes out.

\---

Bond had told MI6 in no uncertain terms that he was accompanying the new extraction team. He had been barred from the previous team on grounds of being emotionally compromised; to be honest, the stress of watching another team potentially fail was going to be far more bloody compromising than joining them.

There was no disputing that Bond was an utterly terrifying human being when pressed. He shot anything that moved. The team was far larger than before, prepared to get through whatever defences were in place.

Bond knew that if they couldn’t get Q out – if they were ambushed, or could not remove the opposing forces – their job was to remove Q. Only some fragments of information had been released, but Q was evidently no longer strong enough; British security outweighed the life of a single man, regardless of talent or intelligence.

There was no way in hell Bond was going to let Q die now. He had spent the previous two weeks listening to Q gradually break down; he had kept Q alive, kept him fighting.

Bond slammed a foot into the lock; the edge of the door splintered off, the door crashing open with incredibly force and noise. It was easy enough to establish Q’s relative location; Bond, with two other agents, shot the four people milling about, who really had no time to react before they were bleeding out.

“Medical _now_ ,” he said shortly, the adrenaline stilling to allow him focus on Q. “Hostiles are cleared.”

“Can target be moved? Until we have established clearance we cannot risk the medical team entering,” M told him; Bond calmed, trying to examine Q’s injuries. The boy was a mess. Moving him, without extensive knowledge of his injuries, could well kill him.

“Injuries extensive, cannot risk moving,” Bond replied. “I repeat, hostiles are cleared. Send in the medical team.”

M spoke in low voices to somebody else; the full building had yet to be examined, but this was _Q_. He was shivering feverously, dried blood and dirt clinging to all exposed areas of skin, raw and broken.

“James,” Q rasped, lips white and cracked. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” James soothed, cupping a hand around Q’s bruised face, noting the little whimper; he was in too much pain to actively flinch. He stayed as still he could, eyes shutting at the contact as though he could blot it all out.

“I don’t want to die,” Q sobbed, almost inaudibly, and Bond felt his throat close. The anger made his vision grey for a moment, before calming himself for Q’s sake.

“Q, I need to get you out,” Bond said gently. “The med team can’t access an unsecured building.”

“Ribs, possibly pelvis, both knees,” Q breathed; Bond took a moment to understand, before the anger flashed back, white-hot and terrifyingly immediate, as he scanned Q’s body. “…. rest is superficial.”

Bond could only trust that Q was telling the truth. “We need to find some way of carrying him,” Bond ordered the men guarding the door. “No internal injuries, but several broken bones. Ideas?”

It was obvious that Bond was being rendered illogical. He had been with Q for several months, shared a flat, shared lives to a great degree. Bond had half run out of ideas, instinctive fear and worry rendering him useless.

The other agents were far better. They took all of a second before shifting to the table, forcing it on its side, snapping the legs off it. “It’s a flat surface,” one said, almost apologetically, to Bond. “Makeshift stretcher, if the meds won’t come in.”

When too many people came close, Q started panicking; Bond held his hand, letting the usually beautiful, now skeletal fingers close around his.

Q’s jaw clenched as they prepared to move him, eyes shutting; Q’s fingers clenched with impressive strength, swallowing a scream, keening slightly instead.

“I’m so sorry, James,” he repeated again, barely lucid, the MI6 agents lifting the tabletop, Q’s body barely adding weight.

“It’s alright,” Bond replied, directing his words at M, at all of his superiors, as much as Q. They would not make his life hell over this, not _this_. Q would remain safe, regardless of what M or anybody else implied. “It’s over.”

\---

Q was unconscious for a long while. Reconstructive surgery on the knees took a while; the kneecaps themselves had been shattered, and Q’s body had gone into shock shortly after being moved. The med team took one look at him, and promptly panicked.

He was alive, however. Ultimately, that was far more important.

Bond kept court around Q’s bedside; MI6 officials arrived intermittently, glancing superciliously at the unconscious body of the man who had technically betrayed state secrets. Q-branch had dealt with most of the leaks given that they had remained connected throughout; however, some breaches had been too efficient, too well-guided.

They were after Q’s blood, and Bond refused to let them within a ten-yard radius.

-

Q felt like somebody had crushed every bone in his body, and left him to bleed out slowly. He let out a soft, plaintive keen as he tried to move his head, the ceiling disconcertingly bright.

“Q?” asked a familiar voice.

Bond had watched Q move in and out of consciousness for the past day or so, as he was weaned off sedatives. His wide, beautiful eyes were finally open, cringing in the light. “James?” he rasped, barely audible.

“I’m here,” Bond replied immediately. “You’re in hospital, and you’re alive, more importantly. You’ll be alright, you’re in good hands.”

“I’m sorry,” he wheezed, eyes staring without seeing. “James, I’m so sorry.”

“You had to live,” Bond said carefully. “Q, calm. You’re safe here.”

“I… James, they’re gonna fire me,” Q mumbled, eyes sliding shut again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“I know, Q, and they won’t,” Bond soothed, a gentle hand on Q’s hot forehead, the younger man losing consciousness by increments.. “Just get well, we’ll talk more later.”

-

“Are you going to fire him?” Bond demanded; M watched him placidly, completely unconcerned by Bond’s histrionics.

“There was a leak in MI6 intelligence. Given the situation, I’m fighting to ensure Q remains in MI6; my superiors are less impressed, but they have little to no perspective. Rest assured, Bond, we will ensure Q’s safety. If you continue to attempt intimidation tactics, I will have you removed from my office.”

Bond, suitably chastened, calmed himself down. “I have your word?” he asked; M rolled his eyes. Bond had quite the propensity for dramatics.

M nodded. He liked Q; he was an exceptional Quartermaster, and the circumstances had been extreme. Q was frankly lucky to be alive. However – rules were made, were binary. Fighting them was consistently challenging.

M could handle challenges.

“Stay with him, Bond,” M ordered. “He will require mental and physical support. If he is to remain as Quartermaster, there cannot be any flaws; he needs to be impervious to commentary, and physically well enough.”

Between the lines: _if he has PTSD, he’s fucked_.

“Understood,” Bond said shortly, and left.

\---

Q was out of hospital a month or so later, confined to a wheelchair for the foreseeable future; his body was still riddled with casts and bandages, he was considerably thinner than Bond liked seeing him – but he was still alive.

He had been doing bits and pieces of Q-branch work while in hospital, despite Bond’s attempts at insisting he rest. He could escape into codes and theories and technology; pain couldn’t find him there, nor fear.

Bond was terrified for him, for the simple reason that Q wasn’t coping very well. He hid it, almost perfectly, but Bond _knew_ ; Q didn’t sleep properly, cried when he thought nobody could see, his entire body froze whenever he was touched.

He didn’t scream, didn’t panic. Q had believed he would die, had resigned himself to that fact. He didn’t fight, when there was no point. He simply sobbed to himself, almost inaudibly, waiting for nothing.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, when Bond asked. “I am honestly fine. It happened. I don’t want to consider it in too much detail, if I can avoid it, but I will keep going, and I will be fine, Bond.”

Q was so far from fine it was actively frightening.

The moment pain started creeping back, Q started to panic again; the tension was visible in his shoulders, down his back, abruptly turning pale, cold sweat breaking out over his forehead. “Q. They’ll know,” Bond pointed out, as Q started semi-trembling.

“I can work it out,” Q promised, almost whimpering as he tried to straighten, pain lancing through his entire lower half. “Help me. Just, _please_. I can’t lose this. This job, it’s…”

Bond pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Q’s head, and tried not to notice the terrified hiccup the contact elicited. “I know,” Bond murmured, heart breaking, Q visibly relaxing as Bond moved away. “We’ll fix it, Q.”

Q nodded, angrily brushing away tears, wheeling himself deftly into the kitchen to find more painkillers.

-

Bond stayed with Q on his first day back in MI6. Q-branch had all been warned not to make too much of Q’s return, but to behave as though nothing had changed; they obeyed, for the most part. Q wheeled himself into his office, his usual desk chair already out the way, computer humming in anticipation.

He lasted a fair while, working on small things, the branch sheltering their leader from anything too difficult.

Q was an impossible man to patronise. He hacked through into Q-branch, found what they were hiding from him, and promptly yelled at them all for trying to conceal information, very poorly. If they were going to hide things from him, at least they should do it _well_.

Shattered, pained, he trembled in his chair afterwards, Bond watching him carefully. “Are you alright?”

Q laughed hollowly. “Yes,” he lied, because he couldn’t bear to tell the truth. “Yes, I’m perfectly alright.”


	16. The School!AU fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Can I just say that your prompts are always amazing and that I always look forward to reading them whenever I log onto Tumblr? I was wondering if you could write high school AU with bullied!nerd!Q and jock!Bond? I haven't really been able to find any 00Q ones, and they're simply one of my favorite AUs. Thank you! - anon

“Hey, _hey_ , get _off him_!”

Q – skulking behind a handful of books, hoping very hard that everybody would lay off hitting him – couldn’t match a name to the face. One of the popular kids, who was hauling people back by the scruff their necks and depositing them several feet away, leaving Q in the centre, with a fat lip and bruises down half his torso, feeling genuinely scared.

The hand snaked down to him, an offer. Q glanced at the hand; just as likely to hit him as help, given how school tended to treat him. “Come on,” the boy offered; well-built, blond, dimly recognisable through the fog of myopia.

It wasn’t the usual crowd, in any case. Q hesitantly reached up, letting the boy hoist him back to his feet; his ribs ached in protest, but he was fine. There were worse things.

Q pushed his glasses up his nose, with one hand, trying to put a few feet of space between himself and the newcomer. It wasn’t worth his while to upset anybody.

“I’m Bond. James Bond,” he said; Q glanced up at his face, and felt like somebody had knocked the air out of him all over again. He was _beautiful_. Sculpted, blue-eyed, a smile that was a source of light on its own. “I’ve noticed you around, you’re the one with an initial…”

“Q,” Q replied quietly; he couldn’t deny a bubble of delight at the thought of being ‘noticed’ by somebody like James. He was an anaemic-looking computer geek; nobody ‘noticed’ him. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Bond smiled. “Q? Good name.”

Q’s smile became marginally more genuine. “Nobody calls me by my real name,” he shrugged, by way of an explanation. “So… erm. I should probably get going.”

“Yeah,” Bond agreed, his smile still somehow remaining in place. “Look, if those guys come back, just have a word with me, yeah?”

Q was rendered speechless for a long few moments. “… Where can I find you?” he asked, voice very dry, almost croaking. He flushed as he realised, and started swearing, concentrating on the sheer number of languages he could find to adequately curse in. The distraction help, the flush died back.

“My form room’s in the main building, bottom floor, C9,” Bond told him, still smiling encouragingly, almost teasing. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Q murmured; Bond turned away, friends calling him back. “Thank you, again, I…”

“Any time,” Bond grinned, nodding as he twisted around, heading back the way he’d come.

Q stared after him. He was still staring, long after Bond had vanished into the next building. _James Bond_. Well.

There was a name he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

\---

Q didn’t see James again for a few days; their form rooms were at opposite ends of the school, and they didn’t seem to have many classes in common. Q had been streamed into advanced classes across the board; in maths, he had joined a class two years ahead of him.

He didn’t honestly share classes with many people. His lessons were all over the place, a timetabling nightmare that none of his peers shared.

After a few weeks being patronised in a Chinese class, he asked the teacher at the end of the class, in perfect Mandarin, if he could be moved into a more advanced class. The teacher – rather used to Q by this stage – nodded wearily, and made the necessary arrangements.

The classroom had only older students, unsurprisingly. Q took a seat as far away from other people as he could physically manage, and hid in a book.

“Hello Q,” a voice said lightly; Q looked up, trying to stop the blood rushing to his face as he saw James Bond.

“James,” he said, with almost-calm. “What are you doing in here?”

“Presumably the same as you,” he smirked, gesturing around the classroom flippantly. At this level of Mandarin, there were only a handful of students taking the class; it was a nice environment, all of the students old enough to not take the piss out of people pronouncing words incorrectly, the teacher keeping order without trying.

James was very good at Mandarin. Q also realised James was very good at Japanese, when he started confusing verbs between the two languages.

He was absolutely gorgeous, and intelligent. Q realised, to his own disgust, that he was utterly smitten. How bloody inconvenient. Bond was also, of course, several years above him, and popular. So far out of Q’s league it was actively frightening.

“So, I guess I’ll be seeing you in here more often?” James grinned, as they were packing up; Q, slightly alarmed at being directly addressed given where his thoughts had been going, shrugged.

“I… erm,” he cursed himself for lack of eloquence, tried again. “Yes. You will.”

“Mind if I stay sitting with you?”

Q’s heart jumped arrhythmically.

“No, by all means,” he said carefully, thinking carefully before allowing his mouth to get involved. James smiled, and vanished into the corridor.

Q got out his planner, and started searching for every single Mandarin lesson in his timetable, circling them emphatically when he found them. Two days. He could survive two days to the next lesson.

-

It still came a monumental surprise when James walked in, grinned at Q. Greeted him, chucked all his stuff down next to his chair, started talking as though Q had any idea what he was saying and _wasn’t_ just staring at him blankly with a mildly gormless expression that really didn’t suit him.

\---

Mandarin lessons shot to the top of Q’s ‘favourite classes ever’. It replaced maths, even. If IT hadn’t been so horribly basic, that would have been his favourite, so instead he lost himself in numbers, in a class three years too advanced for his age. He and Bond spoke about anything and everything, with an ease that Q hadn’t believed possible.

It was the end of another lesson, several weeks later. The teacher had dismissed the class a few minutes early due to other commitments; she had vanished, other students following suit.

“So,” James said, with a smile that made Q feel dizzy. “When do you have a free next?”

Every student beyond a certain year group had free periods. Q, given that he was a timetabling nightmare, had far fewer than most. He also couldn’t begin to understand why James wanted to know, however.

“Next one’s tomorrow, third,” Q told him, filing his books away in already over-heavy bag. “I… you?” he tried, in the hope of being socially polite, if nothing else.

“Same,” James said brightly, with a Cheshire cat grin. “Want to grab a coffee? We can probably get into town and back in the hour…”

Q’s eyes widened, and he was agreeing long before his brain caught up to the rest of him, slightly frightened that he was babbling in his eagerness to let James know that _yes god yes_ he would be there.

James grinned, and sauntered into the corridor, leaving a dumbstruck Q behind.

-

“What’re you having?” James asked, as he scanned the drinks board himself.

Q shrugged. He almost always had the same thing; this café was the only place in a ten-mile radius of the school with good tea. “Earl Grey, I think,” he said with calculated nonchalance.

He had come very close to skiving his previous class to get ready. As it was, he had come into school wearing his best shirt, trousers that were more aesthetic than comfort-based (his mother’s fault), his favourite cardigan. He’d obsessively cleaned his glasses so there were no distracting smears, raked fingers through his hair and very nearly considered cutting the damn stuff off when it refused to cooperate.

Not a hint of that got through. “Earl Grey, and a caramel macchiato,” James purred to the lady behind the counter; she blushed, giggled stupidly. Q suddenly realised that James was buying the drinks.

“You don’t have to…”

“I know,” James said simply, and paid anyway. Q felt a shiver of very faint, very tempered excitement. They waited together, talking casually about computers and languages and school and life in general. They found a table for two at the back, Q steeping his tea to ridiculous strength before adding a token splash of mild from the supplied mini jug.

They didn’t stop talking for the next half hour. It was _brilliant_. Q noted that they had to leave with reluctance that made his brain scream in protest.

“Q…” Bond said, fidgeting with a plastic spoon. “I skipped English for this.”

Q had no idea how to respond. “I didn’t mean for you to… I mean… Why?”

Bond’s smile was wicked and gentle all at once. “I wanted an excuse to see you. English class was the victim. I don’t regret it. Q…”

Q felt every single hair on the back of his arms stand on end.

“… would you like to go on a date? I mean, dinner, something like that? A real date.”

Dinner. That was _properly_ romantic. In an unequivocal, ‘I’d like to wine and dine you’ old-school type way that Q genuinely thought most people around his age utterly incapable of.

Q restrained the strangled sound of pure joy that bubbled in his throat. “Yes,” he said instead, with perfect composure, eyes bright as he nodded. “I thought you were…”

“Straight?” Bond asked, with a wry smile; Q nodded. “Most do. Bisexual, or so it would seem. I like you, Q. I want to spend more time with you, and I’d like… I’d like you to know I think about you in that way.”

Q wondered, for a heady second, if he was in the _best dream ever_.

“Me too,” he replied, only a little breathlessly. “Yes. I… are you _sure_?!”

Bond’s laugh was a low rumble, like a perfect earthquake. Q’s question was not asked lightly; homosexuality was not exactly appreciated, not in school. Bond had a social standing and position, and this could ruin all of it. Things could go very badly wrong, very quickly.

“Yes,” he confirmed, with a smile that was all Q’s. “Definitely.”

\---

“Are you alright?” James asked gently.

Q could honestly say that no, no he was quite definitely _not_ alright. Somehow – through sheer bloody sadism and cosmic irony, probably – it had been leaked across Facebook that he and James were seeing one another. Somebody had seen, somebody had probably _stalked_ , and now the entire school seemed to know.

Having not managed to tell his parents yet, the idea of going into a school full of teenage boys who hated him already, and now knew he was gay, was possibly the single most terrifying thing Q could think of, and he had _quite_ the imagination.

“If anybody tries anything, text me. I’ll be there,” James said firmly. Q believed him. James had, after all, started this by stopping people beating him up; it was probably apt in some perverse, horrible way that he’d end up rescuing Q again.

James kissed him lightly.

Q was still getting used to that feeling. Their first kiss had been a sweet, simple thing in James’s bedroom, his parents watching TV downstairs, the pair of them talking about everything and nothing in a very easy way. Q laughed about something or other, and James had leaned forward and kissed him.

Q had never been kissed before. He therefore had no idea what he was doing. He let James lead; the other boy knew better than him, was able to deftly coax Q into opening his mouth, James’s tongue brushing his very slightly. Q could feel himself growing very red, both with sheer excitement and humiliation at his own inexperience. He wanted it to be perfect.

He told James that later; James had laughed, and told him that kissing was only perfect with the right person. Q’s heart had stopped for the oddest of moments, before James had breathed in his ear that _yes_ , Q was the right person.

“Be strong for me, yes?” James said carefully. “And _text me_ , I know what you’re like, I bet you can text under the desk one-handed.”

“Don’t insult me, I can text without _looking_ ,” Q said, with a very slight tinge of defensiveness – really, anything with technology was his _only_ forte – and let go of James’s hand.

It was beginning to feel empty without him.

“So you’re a fag now?”

Q took a breath. The first comment. Unpleasant, but he’d survived worse. To be quite honest, the mental aspects of the bullying started to become repetitive after a point; he texted James regardless.

_First insults. Unpleasant  - Q_

_Agreed. Bearable, however. My friends are split over it, some comments about dressing room behaviour for footie – J_

Q sighed; that had been somewhat inevitable. James stood to lose so much more than Q; Q’s school career was essentially an exercise in survival already, as far as Other People went. James actually had friends, was popular, on the sports team. He was now dating a geeky kid, a few years younger than him, and also – of course – another boy.

James could take of himself, of course. That didn’t mean he should have to.

_Lunch? – Q_

_Bad idea. - J_

Q stared at the message. Bad idea. James didn’t want to be seen with him more than necessary through the school day. _Bad idea_. Q wondered if Bond had been threatened, or anything, to inspire this change, to make him no longer want to see Q.

Paranoia. It had to be.

_Coffee later? – Q_

No reply. Q bit his nails, let the sounds of insults fly past him, and waited for something to happen. Something had to happen. It always did. It was an all-boys school, a collection of teens with too much testosterone for their own good.

Hours passed. Still no reply.

Paranoia. Surely?

\---

Q settled in the corner of his form room by the window; the form rooms tended to be safest over break times, the rest of the school piling outside for no reason, while Q burrowed into a dark corner and tried to render himself invisible.

Q didn’t want to come across as a complete psychopath by texting insistently. At the same time, he wanted to know James was alright. The paranoia was beginning to eat away at him, slowly, inexorably, building in his head to a dizzying climax where he was certain that James didn’t want to be with him.

_“… Where can I find you?”_

_“My form room’s in the main building, bottom floor, C9.”_

The bottom floor of the main building – and all the classrooms around ‘C’ – were populated by sixth formers. In practise, they were all a year or two older than Q, and if he irritated them, would probably be willing and able to string him up by his testicles to the lab room ceilings.

And yet – James had told him, when they first met, to find him there. He wasn’t texting, which could have been anything from low battery to loss of signal and all variations in between. But while it was lunchtime, at least Q would _know_ , either way.

Q had just about gathered his resolve, when the metaphorical axe fell on him from a great height, in the form of his peers. The shadow fell over him, Q clutching his phone in his fist, eyes wide. This was going to end very badly. He scrambled backwards, thumb darting over the keypad.

_Help. D6_

Niceties could wait until later. The group was larger than usual; the core of six that Q was more accustomed to had added another four to their ranks, plus a collection of others that were probably there to heckle, given that they were standing a little back, visibly less comfortable.

Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_.

Outrunning would be impossible, they had him cornered. They were all after blood; Q tried to tune out the insults, didn’t respond, let them call him a fag and a bender, let them make disgusting comments about taking it up the arse from a sixth former, about him being a quick fuck for a popular kid who’d spent his life in the closet.

Ten minutes until the bell went. Q’s eyes kept darting to the clock. _Please James, get the message, get the bloody message…_

A chair was knocked over as they crowded closer, making Q obviously flinch; he was a very short way from crying, breathing too-quickly, hand still clenching around his phone like it was some sort of lifeline.

They couldn’t read his messages, Q realised, going pale. They would tear him – and James – apart. Q couldn’t defend himself, let alone avoid his phone being taken off him.

In a series of quick motions, Q tugged open the window, and lobbed the phone out; it was not a durable piece of equipment, and they were on the third floor. He didn’t hear it smash. The group took that as their cue to escalate.

Seven minutes.

Four.

Everything stopped. Not abruptly. It was like a tide receding; the sheer volume reduced, as though people were peeling off one by one. Q, with his eyes tightly shut, hands clenched into fists to protect his fingers – his most important body part – didn’t watch, didn’t listen. The insults had gone from nasty to utterly repulsive, and Q simply didn’t need to listen to them.

Three.

“Q? Q, I’m here.”

Oh, that was just _unfair_. Just a few minutes earlier, he couldn’t have been here just a _few minutes_ earlier, just to stop the worst of it. Q blinked his eyes open painfully; he could taste blood, and he _hurt_. There were still a lot of people standing about.

“James, mate, we need to get him to the nurse’s office,” said a voice from behind. “Go talk to Kennedy, he’ll…”

“You can’t tell any teachers, they’ll _kill_ me,” Q said quickly from the floor; he tried to sit up, realising quickly that this was one of the worse beatings he’d received recently. Sitting up was not a simple venture. “Just… get me to the nurse, I’ll be fine, I just…”

“I’m not leaving him.” James’s voice was like boiling water, scalding and full of motion, almost pained. “You guys go to Kennedy, you got the names?”

An affirmative. Q continued to argue, protest; James didn’t seem to be listening, and Q couldn’t understand why, but he was there. “What happened?” he mumbled.

“My mates got in a row, I needed to sort it,” James explained, strong arms trying to lift Q to his feet; Q hated himself for the sob that escaped him. “It’s alright. Half of them aren’t happy, but I have good friends – I got your message, they came to help. They’re on your side, Q. Those fucks in your year aren’t going to get away with doing this to you.”

“James, I think I’m going to throw up,” Q noted quietly; a flurry of movement, a boy by the door throwing James a bin, letting Q retch painfully into it. Q slid to one side, James supporting him. “James, I just… I don’t want to do this again, I’m just…”

“Q. This is not going to happen again,” James told him firmly. “We’re going to get this sorted out, do you hear me?”

Q couldn’t quite believe what was happening, and wondered if being in pain was causing quite impressive hallucinations. Not only was James here – looking after him, taking care of him – but there were other sixth formers around, none of whom seemed to be upset, or judging either of them.

Maturity, possibly. Or just dumb luck.

Nobody crossed the sixth formers, it was a general rule – it wasn’t worth it. The sixth formers held the power, not the hormonal teens in the lower years.

James helped keep Q standing, the younger boy leaning his weight on James as they made their way to the nurse’s office. Two of James’s teammates stayed nearby, keeping watch – two had already gone to the deputy head, Mr Kennedy, to report what had happened.

This was all going to blow up monumentally. For the time being, though – James was there. And that, truly, was all that mattered.

\---

James and Q were intelligent about it. Flaunting a relationship in an all-boys school would be suicidal, at best. After Q’s beating, he was a long way from inclined to tempt anybody else; James was in sixth form, he wasn’t around help Q for much of the time.

The teachers were useless, for the most part. Many of them were, quite frankly, confused. Nevertheless, bullying was never acceptable, and the group who targeted Q were promptly suspended.

It would only be a few more months before James went on study leave for A-levels, Q for his various GCSE and A-level exams, that he was taking in a random order, and they wouldn’t need to worry about the idiots any more.

Q and James spent every moment they could together; Q’s parents did not take especially well to the news of Q’s sexuality, so more time was spent at James’s house overall. James also had friends in sixth form, older, less judgemental; Q ended up, oddly, being quite accepted by James’s friends. They found him sweet, appreciated his intelligence, bought him drinks and laughing without malice when Q blinked dizziness out his eyes and decided dancing was a good idea.

The sixth formers were a lovely collection, and really, the first friends Q had managed in years. Lunchtimes, breaks, found him darting into the sixth form area, taking shelter from the stupidity and childishness of his peers.

James Bond. The single most gorgeous man in the school. A sportsman. And, it seemed, Q’s.

Q still giggled like an excitable six-year-old when he thought about it. It was unreal, just unreal.

“Says the intelligent, beautiful, talented young man who apparently wants me,” James murmured in Q’s ear, nipping the earlobe, kissing under his ear and making him wriggle slightly.

Q’s fingers twirled through James’s clothing, still half-laughing, delighted and almost confused by James’s presence, with him, twined on James’s bed, his muscled arms bound around him. “James, what’s going to happen?” he asked, hot breath into his partner’s mouth.

“I don’t know,” James replied, eyes shut, speaking between frenzied kisses. “Don’t worry, Q, we’ll stay together. I promise. We’ll find a way.”

“I believe you,” Q whispered, and the pair fell apart with one another. The future would happen, of course it would happen. James would join the army, most likely, and Q would go to Cambridge or somewhere similar. They would track out vastly different lives.

Yet they would seek out one another like magnets. No matter how divergent their paths, they would return to one another, inexorably joined.

\---

It was summer, and unbelievably hot.

Q lay in the shade, his head in Bond’s lap. He was half dozing, laptop buzzing happily on his legs, fingers resting over the keys but stiller than usual; the heat made him lethargic, and there was too much light to see the screen well. Bond was reading over his head, last minute revision. He was in the midst of A-levels, really only in school to keep Q company.

When he spoke, Q was jolted out of his semi-catatonic reverie, staring at his computer. “Q,” Bond began; Q looked around, realising Bond had abandoned all revision.

"Mmm?" he asked, shifting upright, his shirt sticking to his back uncomfortably. He reached for his water bottle – his mother, in her infinite wisdom, had left it in the freezer so it was still cold – and sipped, condensation dribbling off his fingers.

Bond swallowed, watching his boyfriend’s lips.

"What’s wrong?" Q asked, wiping his mouth.

Bond smiled slightly, and Q was struck - for an instant - by how impossibility, ridiculously lucky he was. “You’re going to think I’ve lost my mind,” he warned.

"I think that frequently. Go on?" Q teased.

Fingers, trailing down Q’s arm. Since the attack, the teachers and sixth formers, other students, had rallied a bit; Q mostly stayed with older, more mature students these days. Closer to his intellect, if he was honest. “I’d like to take you to prom,” Bond told him quietly.

"The leaver’s ball?" Q clarified; the word ‘prom’ had always sounded so horrifically American in his eyes.

Bond rolled his eyes. “Yes Q, the massive sixth-form dance and piss up and the end of the year,” he teased, although Q could see the nervousness lurking beneath.

"You want to take me? James, are you sure, I mean I’m…"

Bond nodded, eyes dark with the same anxieties. “It’s very public,” he conceded. “But it’s the sixth form lot, they’ll guard you with their lives. They think you’re essentially a kitten who needs protection, so it’s not… it’s just, if you’re comfortable or not. I will understand, honestly.”

Q stopped him, kissing him lightly. “I would love to,” he smiled, blushing slightly as Bond return the kiss, deepening it. Eventually Q pulled away. “I don’t erm… I don’t have a suit. The last one was for my mother’s fiftieth two years ago, and I’ve grown a bit since then,”

Honestly, it was like giving Bond a birthday present. “I’m taking you shopping,” he said flatly. “I have money saved up, I’m sure you do too, and I’m  _finally_  going to get you in a decent suit. Christ, this is a good day.”

Q could only nod, the dappled shade brushing over Bond’s face, his blue eyes glinting.

How the hell did he get this lucky?


	17. The Q Holmes fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of all your writing is incredible! Second, could you please do a Bondlock fic, where maybe something happens to Sherlock and he ends up in hospital? Q and Bond are dating, and while at work Q gets informed by John or Mycroft that Sherlocks been hurt and he rushes out? Bond is worried because he didn't think Q had siblings? Thank you! :)) - anon

Q’s secondary mobile was his priority phone.  It stayed on him at all times, regardless of circumstance or convenience. Four people in the world had the number. Q had never told Bond which four. Assuming Bond was one – which he was – there were three mysteries in Q’s life that Bond didn’t know. He was curious, naturally, but it was Q’s business.

“Yes?” Q said efficiently; he was overseeing Q-branch, a relatively normal day at the office. “Well. I didn’t expect to hear from you… what? _What_? Are you… yes, obviously. I assume Bart’s?… his status?… _Mycroft_ , I asked a question… Yes, I’ll be there imminently.”

With that, Q signed out of MI6 HQ, and didn’t return for the rest of the day.

-

A rather confused Bond entered Q-branch to find Q absent. One of the Q-branch kids explained that he’d left in a hurry, some type of emergency.

Bond called Q, on the priority phone. “Yes?”

“Where are you?” Bond asked directly. “You’re not at work.”

“Obviously,” Q replied sharply. “St Bart’s hospital. My brother was in an incident in the early hours of this morning, just he came out of surgery. Come find me, if you want.”

Bond is already out the building.

-

The man in the bed looks impressively similar to Q. He is completely unconscious, and will remain so for a while; he was stabbed twice, thankfully by somebody relatively inept. By the look of his defensive wounds, Sherlock was also at least in part to commend for avoiding any lethal blows.

The man next to the bed is possibly the most intimidating man Bond has ever come across. There are very few people who can intimidate Bond. Muscles, anything physical, isn’t impressive to him; however, Mycroft Holmes captures some sense of absolutely terrifying power. He doesn’t need to say or do anything to confirm it. Bond just _knows_.

“Mycroft, Bond,” Q says, gesturing between them vaguely. “Mycroft and Sherlock are my elder brothers, by twelve and five years respectively.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bond says politely. Mycroft smiled in a way that speaks of the conversation they will have later. Q quietly hopes Mycroft won’t actually abduct Bond, it won’t end well for either of them.

Later, Bond caught Q in a quiet moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. Q managed an odd smile.

“It’s my identity,” Q murmured. “This is who I was. My family, my old life. Events like this illustrate that regardless of how strong they ostensibly seem, they aren’t invincible. I don’t want to jeopardise them.”

Bond placed a soft hand on Q’s. He could understand, and wasn’t upset at not being told. He had to have his secrets, everybody had to have their secrets, and only Q could be holding back a secret like _Mycroft Holmes_ , most frightening man alive. Evidently, Q had one hell of a family.

Bond was already looking forward to finding out more.

\---

They had a coffee in the hospital cafeteria. Q smiled apologetically, as Bond attempted to assimilate the various pieces of information he’d been assaulted with; not least, the presence of Mycroft Holmes anywhere in the vicinity.

“He’s always been like that,” Q confirmed, half-smiling. “I’ve known him as anything else. Jesus, he’s _twelve years_ older than me; for a brother, that’s a stupidly large age gap. We had very points of reference until I was older.”

“I can imagine,” Bond said quietly, drinking the sub-par coffee. “Your whole family is… hyper-intelligent?”

“Essentially,” Q shrugged mildly. “Really, I think I suffered the shallow end of the gene pool, in terms of base intellect. They’re both excellent, though. I think I learned more about applied chemistry in a single summer holiday than in _years_ of actual ‘schoolwork’.”

Bond was still getting over the idea that Mycroft Holmes was ever a child. It was a surprisingly tricky concept to imagine. “Mycroft taught me politics, negotiation… how to pretend to be normal…”

“You are normal,” Bond interjected quickly, with a dash of passion that made Q smile.

“No, James. I’m not. But thank you,” he said lightly, as his phone started ringing. Q grabbed it with a cursory look at the called ID. “Myc? Yes, we’ll be there in a moment.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, questioning, and Q just smiled: “Sherlock’s woken up.”

-

Sherlock glared unapologetically at Bond.

“Secret agent, training in multiple forms of armed and unarmed combat, old gunshot wound to shoulder… with that level of training, I’d assume a license to kill, which places you as double-oh agent… good god, Q, you are hopeless.”

“Bond, Sherlock,” Q said, waving between them wearily. Sherlock – who somehow looked arrogant and aloof _despite_ being in a hospital bed – waved at the man Bond had rather overlooked. He had assumed another doctor, given the way he had fussed around Sherlock’s charts.

“Bond, Q, this is John,” Sherlock said in return; ‘John’ turned around, flushed very slightly at the unwarranted attention. “My partner.”

“Oh good, we can double-date,” Bond said aloud, with a non-confrontational dash of sarcasm. Q elbowed him subtly. “Pleasure to meet you both.”

Sherlock gave a sulky _humph_ , Mycroft just smiled obsequiously. “Yes,” Mycroft said quietly, unbelievably unnerving. “A pleasure.”


	18. The Underage!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Q is actually sixteen, and when bond finds out, chaos ensues. Can be happy or angsty. - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underage issues, as you may imagine.

“Your birthday is _next week_ and you decided not to tell me?!” Bond asked, batting Q playfully around the back of the head. Q pouted slightly, still laughing, curled up in the duvet smiling gently. “Jesus, what am I supposed to get you?”

“A car is traditional, I guess, but probably optimistic,” Q grinned; Bond laughed, before the sentence properly impacted.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, not getting the joke. “Sorry, what?”

“A car. Seventeen? I’ll be able to drive,” Q smirked. “I can dismantle half the world, but can’t drive. No justice, and… and… and what did I say, exactly?”

Bond had gone an intriguingly pasty shade of white. “Seventeen?” he asked, through a closed throat. “What do you mean, seventeen?”

Q sobered up very quickly. “Bond, please tell me you read the files that I _deliberately_ ensured you could access, about my pertinent details? Tell me that you didn’t decide to suppress your curiosity for the first and only time in your _entire_ life, about something like _this_?!”

Bond was in no position to tell Q anything whatsoever. He was almost entirely certain that all oxygen in the room had instantly dissipated.

“Oh shit,” Q muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“How… how did you even become Quartermaster, at your age?” Bond managed, bizarrely the first question that came to mind.

Q raised an eyebrow. “I had a PhD in computer science by fifteen; MI6 headhunted me. I look and behave twice my age as it is. James…”

“No,” Bond snapped, cutting Q off quickly. “Just… you’re underage, _jesus_ …”

“Bond, age of consent is sixteen, no foggy legality there,” Q retorted curtly. “Nothing has changed except your perception…”

“Q, I’m the wrong side of forty, and you’re… shit, this is…”

“If it helps, my MI6 ‘official’ records place me at twenty-two,” Q said unhelpfully. “I did unblock my _actual_ records though, it didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t…”

“I wanted to hear about your life from _you¸_ not a file?!” Bond suggested, in a lethally unpredicatable voice. “I assume you thought I’d looked already?”

“Quite a while ago,” Q nodded, collapsing forward with his head in his hands. “Well, brilliant. You’re panicking, and I’m guessing you’re going to be very reluctant now concerned sexual contact?”

If it was possible, Bond went whiter. Q let out a small moan of irritation and longing; this was not _fair_. “I would have waited until you were at _least_ eighteen…” Bond murmured to himself. “You’re literally not old enough to buy alcohol, for god’s sake.”

“I don’t like alcohol,” Q said curtly. “I do, however, like you. You matter. Bond, _nothing has changed_.”

“Stop saying that!” Bond bellowed, striding off the bed; Q had tactfully covered up every inch of his body, for the sake of Bond’s sanity. “You are… I need to think, Q.”

Q rolled his eyes, collapsed back on the bed. “Ok. Fine. Let me know when you’re done, will you?”

Bond walked out; Q watched him go with incomparable sadness. He knew Bond too well. He had been surprised when Bond hadn’t commented on his age, and really, had just avoided the subject as much as he could. Bond wouldn’t deal with this very well.

Q would miss him.

\---

The knock on the door was businesslike, formal. Q tugged it open, to be faced with Bond, once again. “Can I come in?” Bond asked, voice stiff, everything about him somehow not working as Q remembered.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Q said in response, swinging the door wide. Bond walked in like he’d never been in the flat before, sitting on the furthest edge of Q’s sofa. Q shut the door, settling opposite, giving Bond the space he quite obviously wanted.

Bond doesn’t waste time with silences. He has never been very good at them.

“If we’re going to continue any form of relationship,” Bond started, voice level, words rehearsed. Q is hardly surprised, but cannot deny that it hurts; the pain mutates into righteous anger. “We will need to discuss parameters.”

“James, for god’s sake…”

“No,” he interjected, voice powerful. Q – beginning to simmer with anger – backed down, staring at Bond through oddly wide eyes. He couldn’t believe Bond. He was still the same person. Whatever he tried to do now would not erase what had come before, would not change how Q felt, would change _nothing_.

Yet Bond could not get past it. He was _considerably_ older than Q. Q was young, had an entire life; beyond the simple moral constraints of sex with somebody of his age, there was the simple fact this had to be one of Q’s first relationships. His first _anything_. He had a life ahead of him with infinite experiences, and should not have been involved with somebody several times his age in what had been rapidly approaching a relatively serious relationship.

“We are not going to be having sex,” Bond told him firmly; Q’s jaw tightened, lips turning very thin. “I will be scaling back the amount of time we spend with one another, and…”

“And what?” Q asked, his voice unbelievably tense. Fuck it, Bond did not have the _right_ to treat him like this; he had a mental age way beyond his years, with accompanying intellect. This was _absurd_. “You’ll try and pawn me off onto somebody else? Somebody you think _right?_ ”

Bond’s expression didn’t flicker, which was more than enough of an answer.

“If you aren’t prepared to meet my terms, then we can’t see each other,” Bond said with lethal quiet. Q was, by this point, too angry to really consider anything in clarity.

“If you are planning to call the shots on _my life_ , and _my decisions_ , then I’m going to have to agree with you,” Q hissed; Bond’s expression still didn’t bloody well change, despite Q feeling like he was rapidly losing control. Jesus, why the fuck couldn’t Bond just  _respond_. “James, this isn’t your call. I _want_ to be with you.”

“Wrong, Q,” Bond replied, standing, leaving Q bundled in the corner of the sofa with a wide-eyed, angry, tearful expression. “It is my call.”

Q gasped for air; he reminded himself that it wasn’t a surprise, that this was what he expected, that it would be alright. “I am sorry,” Bond told him tenderly.

Q didn’t reply. He made it until the moment the door shut, before starting to cry.

\---

Work was difficult. Q, in a bid to prove that his emotional maturity was intact, behaved with absolute professionalism. A little ironically, given that Bond was treating him like a mentally deficient child.

Q talked Bond through a mission, the agent questioning Q’s judgement for the duration; evidently, his age was not just going to affect their personal lives. “Bond, let me do my fucking job,” he spat, as Bond _once again_ asked for clarification on Q’s directions.

“I…”

“I am your Quartermaster, and senior operative,” Q spat. “I’ve been handling you on missions for the last ten months, what _precisely_ is your problem?” Bond didn’t answer, obviously. “ _Nothing has changed_. I am _still_ the best fucking Quartermaster to date, _regardless_ of your ridiculous prejudice concerning my age.”

Bond still refused to answer. “You’ve ordered hits on targets,” he said quietly, edging along the edge of a corridor with his gun primed. “You have ordered people dead. You’re _sixteen_. You should not be making decisions like that.”

“Who, exactly, should?” Q asked, almost genuinely intrigued; nobody should have the power to order people’s deaths. His age was an almost irrelevant concern, when the basic premise skirted around serious immorality.

Bond fell silent. Q talked him through the rest of the mission with an entirely empty voice, disconnecting at the end and falling back in his chair, lost in thought.

-

The _clink_ of metal was enough to make Q look up.

Bond’s gun rested on his desk, entirely intact, along with his slightly battered radio equipment. It was still all present, however, which made a pleasant change. “To what do I owe this honour?” Q asked drily.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said, in lieu of answering the question.

Q stared at him. “You should be,” he replied without hesitation. “MI6 knew what they were doing. Don’t be arrogant enough to assume you know better.”

“Oh, and happy birthday,” Bond said as an afterthought, waving at the equipment. “Q. I have known many very young agents who lasted no time at all; experience, maturity, is incredibly important…”

“Not when I have long since proven my aptitude,” Q responded, still cagy, angrily defensive. “You have to trust me. If you don’t want anything more, I understand, James. But not my work, you do _not_ take away my work.”

Q wanted to photograph the moment for posterity; James Bond, looking repentant and apologetic. Q had never known it to happen before. There was a decent chance of it never being repeated.

“It will not happen again,” Bond assured him.

Q’s chest literally ached when James reached forward, placed a warm hand over his. He kept watching for anything more, any _indication_ that this could move forward, that they could reclaim their relationship _somehow_.

Bond didn’t move his hand for a moment, looking back with a ridiculously intense, unreadable expression.

He pulled away, walked out. Q reached out, hands closing around Bond’s gun, examining it; not so much as a scratch in the paintwork. “ _My favourite personal statement_ ,” Q remembered him laughing, when Q issued him with a new one; two days later, Bond had kissed him with enough passion to bruise.

It was something. For the time being, at least, it would have to be enough.

\---

Bond blinked. Strip lighting, anaesthetised whitewashed ceilings, the stench of disinfectant. Medical. Oh, superb.

“Quite an impressive explosion,” a voice muses; Bond twists his head with a surprising degree of difficulty. Q is sat on a chair next to him, legs crossed, touchscreen tablet in his hands; his fingers lightly skim over it once in a while. “You have burns spanning most of your lower body.”

Q looks up. He evidently hasn’t slept in about a week, but still retains the amused condescension he is so good at capturing. “You nearly died,” he says, very quietly.

Bond groans, finds the button he knows will lift the bed. He has been to Medical _far_ too many times. Judging by Q’s expression, this must have come close to being the last time.

“Q, what are you doing here?” Bond asks, a little more sharply than intended; Q’s face grows terrifyingly hard, an expression lesser men would have wilted at the sight of.

Bond is not a lesser man. “James, did you not hear me say that you _nearly died_? Regardless of your feelings towards me, or what you may believe, I still care for you exceptionally deeply.”

He doesn’t say that he hasn’t slept in a week, waiting for Bond to improve. He doesn’t mention that R has practically taken over in the past week. There is no reference to Q’s screaming matches with staff who were sceptical of his relationship with Bond.

Bond knows. There would be no point in repeating words they have both said before.

“Q. You have to move on,” Bond tells him, hiding the very slight plea in his tone. “You know I am not right for you…”

“No,” Q contradicts flatly. “ _You_ know. I am in love with you, I couldn’t give a fuck about my age, or whether its appropriate, or any other fucking thing. You made your decision, and this is mine.”

Bond reached out to Q with an annoyingly weak hand; he hated being physically weak, it was exceptionally irritating for him. “Q…”

Q shook his head. “I’m staying. If you’re going to make me wait, then fine. Sex is hardly the be-all, but I cannot pretend I won’t miss it. You’ll want to wait til I’m eighteen?”

Bond looks conflicted for a long moment. “I suppose…”

“Then I will wait,” Q said lightly. “Your behaviour professionally has been fine, and I am rather hoping you will accustom yourself to my age within our personal lives. As it happens, I still believe you are being an idiot.”

“You’re young enough to be my son,” Bond pointed out.

“But I’m not,” Q cut over him, ignoring Bond’s angry expression; he had ever hated being interrupted mid-speech. “I also have an intellectual, and emotional, maturity that probably outstrips many of your more vacuous conquests. James, you need to be reasonable. Just… let me stay. Think about it. In a few months, if you can’t move on, fine. That’s fine. Just… try. For me.”

Bond was aware that he would be on medical leave for a fair degree of the foreseeable future. He had the distinct impression that Q would not be leaving him alone. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, Q’s words shooting through his immediate memory.

_You know. I am in love with you, I couldn’t give a fuck…_

Bond’s eyes flew open, staring around at Q.

The boy just stared straight back, entirely unflinching, grey-green eyes revealing nothing. The corner of his lip twitched in a slight smile, and he shrugged almost imperceptibly.

Q’s hand reached out, lying over Bond’s. He turned his hand over, closed around Q’s elegant fingers, breathed out slowly. He felt Q’s heartbeat in the boy’s thin wrist, as he slid into sleep.

\---

“… and this is my brother,” Q announced, waving at Sherlock, his smile light and happy.

 Sherlock was neither light nor happy. He watched Bond like he was the least trustworthy creature Sherlock had ever happened upon, glare utterly merciless. He glanced briefly towards Q, raising an eyebrow. “A pleasure to meet you,” Bond managed, extending a palm; Sherlock’s eyebrow remained raised, Bond’s hand returned to his side with a faint smirk that told the man he didn’t care.

Q glanced at Sherlock worriedly. “Sherlock, what…?”

“Double-oh agent. Likely to harm, or be harmed,” Sherlock stated coldly. “Not exactly somebody I would deem ideal as a partner to my younger brother.”

“Sherlock…”

The man shot a dark glare at his sibling, standing back slightly. “I need to make a brief call,” he murmured, with darkness to his tone that boded immensely badly. “I’m sure you can keep yourselves amused for a moment.”

With that, he quite abruptly vanished. Q whistled out a breath. “No idea,” he said, before Bond could ask. “He’s a twat, but that was impressive, even by his standards. I’m so sorry, James.”

Bond shrugged; it was a shame, but hardly world-shattering, that Q’s sibling detested him. He harboured a vague hope that Mycroft would take to him better, but honestly, he wasn’t holding out for it. “Maybe he’ll come round,” Bond shrugged.

221B was a nice flat, actually. John was out – a great pity, as far as Q was concerned, given the tempering factor he tended to add to any contact with Sherlock – and the air of the flat was therefore marred with chemical smells, and burnt toast. He was out for the whole weekend, actually.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later, looking like a cat with proverbial cream. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is on his way,” he announced, voice delighted even if his expression was still relatively neutral.

Q and Bond were stunned for several seconds apiece. “Why?” Q asked eventually, wondering if this was some form of hoax.

“To arrest Mr Bond here for sexual contact with a minor,” Sherlock informed them, sitting back in his chair, fingers laced. “It is, of course, patently obvious that the pair of you have been having intercourse.”

Q paled, Bond’s expression neutral while his stomach plummeted. “We haven’t in several weeks, since I discovered his age,” Bond told him quickly, urgently. “Not to mention that he’s over sixteen…”

“Your jobs leave you in a position of relative trust; I think it is safe to assume that with correct representation, a case can certainly be made,” Sherlock parried, while Q seemed to go into shock next to him. Under eighteen, in a position of trust; Bond could be imprisoned for statutory rape.

Q managed to find a voice. “Sherlock, he’s _fine_. I didn’t tell him my age, it’s not…”

Bond appeared to have entirely frozen in place, unhelpfully enough. Everything he had feared had just come true, with a vengeance.

Sirens blared outside, Q turning on his brother. “I will not forgive you for this,” he said simply, as there was a loud knock on the door, and Bond took a deep breath.

\---

Bond was leant against the wall of the cell, irritated beyond all human conception, and genuinely worried about his love. His foot turned in irate circles, fingers tapping against the bench, waiting for Q to inevitably circumnavigate all paperwork to get him out.

When the door opened, however, it was _not_ Q. A well-dressed man, neatly parted hair, umbrella in hand; he scanned over Bond, and sighed slightly. “I apologise for the inconvenience, Mr Bond,” he said, in a perfectly modulated voice. “I am perfectly aware that your charges are spurious, at best. You are, of course, free to go – and return to Q.”

Bond stood fluidly, facing the new arrival. “And you are?” he asked, not harshly; the man twitched a slight, almost mocking smile.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man replied, dark eyes curiously bright. “Q’s eldest brother. Sherlock’s behaviour was unacceptable; he knows full well that if you had been in any sense… how shall we put it? _Unsuitable_ for my brother, you would have been removed a long while previously.”

A slight nod from Bond, who could not help but be wary. He had heard a multitude of stories about Mycroft Holmes, and every single one flicked in his head as he looked over this supposedly terrifying man, with more power than Bond could ever begin to conceive of.

“Come now; we need to locate Q, before he attempts to murder Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, with the weariness of an elder brother accustomed to his siblings being absurd.

-

Q was resolutely refusing to speak to Sherlock. Mycroft had been trying to placate his little brother for over an hour, and the man was obstreperously glaring at his completely unsympathetic, unrepentant brother.

“He’s too old for you.”

“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Sherlock, Q emotionally and intellectually outstrips most his age. I would go so far as to say he outstrips _you_ , brother dear,” Mycroft drawled, absentmindedly running fingers over his umbrella handle.

Sherlock growled, lip raising angrily. “He’s _seventeen…_ ”

“And old enough to make my own decisions, _thank_ you,” Q snapped at him, petulant and absolutely bloody furious. Bond hushed him, placing a gentle kiss against his throat, in a way that tended to calm Q down. “You had my partner _arrested_.”

A small smirk. “In essentials,” Sherlock returned smugly; Q’s jaw set, and he turned away again, burrowing against Bond’s chest in a way that was half-childish, half very possessive indeed.  
Bond just raised an eyebrow. “I have no intention of losing Q,” he told Sherlock frankly, rather enjoying the flash of anger, of challenge, in the man’s expression.

Mycroft just shook his head to himself, smiling very slightly. Q needed somebody who would stand up for him, would look after him, respect him, cherish him.

Really, there were worse options than James Bond.


	19. The Dragonchild fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I just sent the better part of the weekend going through all your writings. Which are wonderful btw. I have a 00Q request if you don't mind: The reason Bond never returns Q's equipment and loves pretty things is because he's a dragon or a descendent of one, your choice, and he hoards the pieces left over from missions. As an agent he's not allowed to have to many attachments and he's never wanted one until he meets Q, whom he wants to hoard above all else. - junetangerine

Q found Bond’s flat an exceptionally strange place. The agent himself was exceptionally strange, so it did rather follow that his flat would be the same.

It was melee of junk. Very beautiful junk, admittedly, but junk. Swatches of fabric in intoxicating patterns, gleaming metallic tokens with complex engravings, the occasional oily shine of a handgun, buried amongst everything else.

“Bond, I believe I asked for this back four months ago,” Q called, fingers and eyes resting on a minute flesh-coloured device, hidden behind a book that looked older than Q is, and a foot-square tapestry that smelt of incense.

Bond appeared behind him, looking far from apologetic. “I hoard things,” he explained, glancing around his collection of beautiful things, acquired over years. He looped his arms around Q possessively, trapping him perfectly.

“That’s a grim understatement,” Q laughed, already used to Bond’s rather possessive gestures; he allowed the arms, even managed a slight smile. “Why, out of interest?”

Bond was quiet for a moment, letting out a soft growl. “I’m a dragonchild,” Bond murmured, feeling Q stiffen in shock. Everybody had heard of dragonchildren; the immensely strong, often angry, very possessive beings. It explained the hoarding, too; the draconian tendency to seek and keep treasures. “I take beautiful things, and I keep them.”

At his words, Bond’s arms tightened fractionally more. Q’s eyebrow raised. “I’m beautiful?” he murmured, Bond crawling, reptilian, around his body.

“The most beautiful of all this,” Bond confirmed, with a loose gesture around the room. Q spun in his arms, looked at the fire caught behind Bond’s eyes; he believed it. It was quite possible that Bond would be that type, the kind to take charge of all he saw, protect it to his final breath.

Q pressed a cold kiss to Bond’s fire, and smiled.

\---

Really, the most irritating factor was Bond’s pyromania. Q could manage the rest. The occupational hazard of various fires was mostly just lethal for his computer equipment, and his blood pressure.

Bond also struggled with letting Q out of his sight, given that Q was the prize of his collection; Q found himself spending a hilariously large amount of time in Bond’s flat, surrounded by Bond’s other treasures.

It was odd, having a boyfriend who literally possessed him entirely. Q was becoming accustomed to the coolness of his skin, the incredible heat of his mouth, his breath scalding Q’s skin, a dash of pain, Bond covering him again, keeping him from all harm. He felt fragile and valuable, consumed quite completely.

Q could cope with it. A lesser, weaker creature would be in deep trouble; yet Q had strength, a stony ice in his soul that wasn’t found in many others. He could remain intact, even in the face of Bond’s terrifying passion.

It took very little for Bond to get angry. Anxiety, jealousy were the worst culprits; Q would throw out a too-sharp comment, and Bond would be pressed against him with violence simmering under the skin, ferocious words, livid sentiment.

And then, of course, he would inevitably end up setting fire to something. Q would sigh, remind him to keep the fire in the kitchen, if you would, it’s easier to put out in there, the living room is filled with flammables.

Bond would curse in long-lost languages, and blow fire into the sink. Q rolled his eyes, and settled on the sofa, waiting for Bond’s hands to relax from tightly-knotted fists, for him to calm down.

Q was never in any danger; he was too precious to be damaged. However, Bond made life a lot harder when he managed to ‘accidently’ melt his laptop; there was no point in trying to stop him, or interfere. It was Bond’s nature, his genes; he couldn’t fight it, so Q didn’t ask him to.

He just sat back, removed anything valuable that wouldn’t take to melting or burning, and waited for his impossible, brilliant dragonchild partner to return to him.

\---

Bond woke up in the middle of the night, really not in the greatest of moods, to find his Q gone.

He rolled his eyes, growling softly under his breath; Q was supposed to stay there, knew full well that Bond – with his draconian tendencies – needed to keep his most treasured possession in easy reach, as much as possible. While at home, Q was usually more than able to cleave to his side, beautiful and _his_.

Padding into the living room, he found no sign of Q, barring the thin slant out of light from the kitchen. Bond pushed open the door, blinking absurdly as he took in the sight of Q, sitting on the kitchen table, grinding something together in a pestle and mortar.

“What are you doing?” Bond asked, with a touch of weary suspicion.

Q looked up, jumping at the sudden intrusion. “Hi,” he smiled, looking tired but determined. “That’s useful, actually, I could do with a bit of fire, if you’re up for it?”

“I’d like an explanation first,” Bond said flatly, nodding at the various herbs, substances, jams and meats and all sorts scattered over the table. Q glanced around, cheeks staining very slightly pink.

Bond was a dragonchild, and that had opened the gates into an almost untouchable world for Q; they were a rare breed, and they – along with all brands of magic – weren’t very widely practised, were dying out except among the species concerned.

Q was not magic, to his annoyance. Alchemy was, however, more of a cerebral pursuit, one that did not really require magical capabilities; in practise, one of the few things Q could study that related to Bond’s world.

He didn’t really need to explain, ultimately; Bond took a decent look over the equipment, the alembic and pipettes, and already knew. “You don’t have to,” he pointed out, with odd gentleness.

Q’s smile was as soft as Bond’s voice, green eyes light as he simply told Bond: “I want to. Now – a little fire?” he asked, tone optimistic.

Bond rolled his eyes, shifting low, Q holding out the conical flask with a set of tongs. “How strong?” Bond asked, glancing up at Q with barely suppressed amusement.

“Not too much, I only need it to simmering,” Q replied; Bond paused for a moment, consistently taken aback by how well Q had adapted to him. It was not a simple, nor easy, thing to accept; Bond’s past was littered with those who could not, or would not, try to understand or adapt.

He took a breath, letting out a controlled billow of flame, licking around the flask; the liquid inside didn’t stand a chance, quickly moving to a low simmer as Q tugged it back happily, content to test forms of alchemy while his dragonchild watched, in awe at the perfection of the creature he’d found.


	20. The Baudelaire fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Totally random prompt for you: I have a head canon about Skyfall period Q meeting and somehow connecting in a sweet way with Violet Baudelaire from the Lemony Snicket novels. So maybe something where Q and Violet meet, bond over cute nerdy things and she finally finds some non family support after everything with Count Olaf? - dwcourtesan

The girl could not have been older than eighteen. The child in the buggy in front of her was sleeping contentedly; she looked up at it every once in a while, smiling lightly, cooing gently when required and lulling the child back to sleep.

Otherwise, she was busy looking at something in her lap. Her long dark hair was tied back with a ribbon, her expression intense and entirely engrossed in what she was doing.

“Anybody sitting here?” he asked; Q liked this park. It was a fair way away from MI6, but close enough for him to visit over his lunch break; there were one or two benches, the other taken by an elderly woman and what looked like her granddaughter.

She shook her head, smiled slightly. Q settled himself next to her, cradling a cardboard cup of Earl Grey, watching the park. And, as minutes passed, what the girl next to him was doing.

“Is that a gun?” Q asked; the device seemed made of a host of innocuous materials, including part of the inner lining of her purple coat. The girl smiled lightly, examining it at arms length; it was shaped utterly wrongly, but the metallic elements and the round pellet in the centre was rather obvious.

“A type of gun,” she said, in a soft American accent.

“Just need the gunpowder components,” Q noted; she looked at him with utter suspicion. “Sorry. I work in a research and development company, I do this kind of thing all day. What’s your name?”

“Violet,” she replied; Q extended a hand, Violet tentatively shaking it. Q couldn’t help but notice that she had tiredness in her eyes that didn’t fit her physical age. “And this,” she continued, gesturing at the child in the buggy. “Is Beatrice.”

“Beatrice,” Q murmured. “So. A question – with the right equipment, could you make that concept more durable?”

“Who are you?” Violet asked instead, ignoring Q’s questions.

“I’m Q,” he replied. “That is my name, I assure you. I’m just Q.”

Violet nodded, a strange of hair falling in her eyes out of the ribbon. “Good to meet you, Q,” she said quietly, tentatively, her eyes dancing through the ideas of what she could do with the equipment in her hands.

Q watched her, smiling absently. She was sharp, clever, transparently damaged. MI6 absorbed people like that – the ones who needed a purpose, somewhere to channel their brilliance.

Q smiled, nodded politely. “And you, Violet.”

\---

Within a handful of weeks, Violet Baudelaire was installed within Q-branch. Q was delighted; she was his first personal recruit, and he was quietly confident that she would turn out to be a tremendous asset.

Access to good equipment and technology had transformed her already. Her confidence on computers was non-existent, but practical application and invention were her specialities.

“Universal lockpick,” she said with quiet confidence, placing it on her desk.

Q had a glance at it. Technologically sound. He pressed it against the edge of his work safe.

It took a few minutes; minute gears, picks, slid out of the tiny device, working along the edges of the hydraulic mechanism. After precisely two minutes, wherein Q watched, fascinated, the door opened with an overly loud clunk.

Imperfect, but sublime for an early prototype. Q grinned. “If you modify the internal aspects of this section,” Q said, indicating the section in question. “You could reduce the time. That will be the most difficult task, but the most important if you want this to be effective in the field.”

Violet nodded, with a happy smile. “… Q, I never said this… but thank you, for everything.”

Q’s smirked back. “Earn your keep, you can stay forever. You’re good at this, Violet. How’re your siblings?”

“Fine. Sunny’s in school, Klaus is writing mostly, trying to get his novel published, looking after Beatrice while I’m here. This job… he’s been able to stay with Beatrice, it’s enough money to keep us above water.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Q said truthfully. “Do let me know if I can help. You’re good, Violet. Really good. I’d prefer to retain you on my staff if I can – if we need to look into childcare…”

“It’ll be fine,” she interrupted, with an odd expression; Q backtracked quickly. “Thank you for that, though,” she continued, with a forgiving smile. “Coffee at lunchtime?”

“If my boyfriend doesn’t decide to take exception,” Q grinned; Bond would never mind. She smiled, picked up her lockpick, headed out. Q watched her go, very satisfied indeed. An excellent addition to Q-branch.


	21. The Shot!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh, I love you both and your writing! Could you write a Q/Bond, where Q is shot at MI6, but he has to keep helping Bond through his earpiece because Bond is on a mission somewhere far away and needs his assistance. - Anon

“Take out the door on your left and keep moving straight through, you’ll need to get out the fire escape,” Q told him quickly; Bond listened to the familiar sounds of Q typing, trying to bring up CCTV. “James, you have two assailants on the opposite left building, top windows, I can’t define which from here.”

Bond was too busy shooting and avoiding death to hear the faint intake of breath. He did hear the gunshots from Q’s end. “Q, what’s happening?” Bond asked urgently. There was deathly, horrible silence from the other end. “ _Q_ , answer me!”

“Breach in Q-branch, assailants eliminated,” Q replied, allaying Bond’s fears with his usual controlled voice, entirely calm. “My apologies. My office has been locked down from others; I will continue to direct you, but bear in mind Q-branch intelligence may take longer to access.”

“Received,” Bond said firmly, grateful for Q’s apparent safety; his office was entirely impregnable when in lockdown. “Where am I going?”

“Go down,” Q managed. His slick hands glanced off the handle as he grappled in his desk drawer, finding his office stack of explosives in case anybody managed to breach his now-locked door. The corpse of the first man lay near the door; he had targeted Q specifically. Q had received the intelligence of a security breach moments before he entered; he killed the man easily, but not before being shot himself.

He was safe now, but it was quite considerably too late. He shouldered off his cardigan awkwardly, keeping one hand pressed against the wound, bunching the half-worn fabric into a ball and creating a makeshift compress. Red started to stain to mustard-yellow.

“You need to get onto the main road,” Q told him, breath catching as he pressed harder; the bleeding wouldn’t stop, he could feel his cardigan growing damply heavy, and his vision was blurring. “Head left, get around the back of the fruit vendor and get down that side street. You’re going to have to move bloody fast, if they get you there you’ll be easily targeted.”

“Q, are you alright?”

“Stop talking, get moving,” Q told him, half-laughing, half-sobbing as he watched his Bond, his _James_ , run flat-out on dodgy CCTV. “Go, James, _quickly_ please.”

Bond obeyed, sprinting down the side-street in a feat that would make marathon runners proud, barrelling out into a wider street. “The bike?” Bond asked, breathing harshly.

“That’ll do,” Q replied, whimpering in pain as he reached for his mouse, still tracking Bond’s wider movements. Outside, the gunfire had stopped; the threat had been eliminated, he could hear his colleagues hammering on the door. He needed to unlock the office, but that was nowhere near as simple as locking it in the first place, and he was having trouble focusing on the keyboard.

“Q…”

“Get to the hotel, the extraction team can find you from there,” Q told him, listening to Bond on a motorbike – always frightening – as he started wending his way to the team waiting for him. Q stayed quiet, breath hitching slightly, typing one-handed in the hope of getting the office door unlocked.

It hurt, it really _really_ hurt, and Q was beginning to feel very scared about possibly dying like this.He muted Bond for a moment, accessing the speakers over Q-branch.

“Please somebody get the office open,” he mumbled, using his energy to keep his finger on the button. “Med team, gunshot wound to abdomen.”

He heard all hell break loose outside his office. Good. They were on the way, hopefully in time. “James, are you in position?”

“ETA thirty seconds,” he replied. “Q, you sound odd.”

“Just get to safety,” Q replied; he fell forward, head lying across his desk, eyes sliding shut, trying to keep his brain and mouth working as he waited for the confirmation. He could feel his own heartbeat, too-strong, his temples pounding, each beat pulsing out more of him, thoughts harder to grasp. “You there?”

“Here, extraction team present,” Bond replied. “Now Q, what’s happened?”

“I’m fine,” Q lied, barely audible. “Stay safe, James, please. For me. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Q?”

“Be safe,” Q murmured again to himself, hand falling slack from his stomach, passing out as his office door crashed open, and Bond grew frantic in his ear.

\---

Bond had to accept that Q had gone offline; he would not have been unduly concerned, were it not for the fact that Q would always stay around long enough to confirm his safety, would leave with some smart quip, or apologise for an abrupt end.

Q had also sounded… peculiar. Strained, somehow, his voice slightly faded on the comms. Bond put up with the extraction team for as long as he could cope, before pickpocketing a mobile off one of the agents, and tapping through to Q-branch.

He reached R. “Where’s Q?”

“Unavailable,” R replied, businesslike and calm; Bond respected her tremendously, but she was not Q, and he needed to know Q was safe. “We have your flight confirmed, the situation will be explained upon your return.”

“Situation?” Bond asked dangerously.

“007, I cannot disclose that information at present,” R told him, semi-apologetic; issues within MI6 could not be discussed over the phone, especially not when Q’s status was still unknown. He was in surgery; informing Bond defied protocols, and was liable to cause panic. “Report to M upon your arrival.”

“Received,” Bond growled, and hung up before she did.

-

Bond, naturally, didn’t follow orders. He never had, and quite possibly never would. Rather than reporting to M, he sought out Q; Q-branch was cordoned off, deserted, waiting for a full cleanup team. With a panic Bond hadn’t felt in his life since trying to reach Vesper as she drowned, he leapt towards Q’s office.

The first thing that struck him was the volume of blood. He could taste rust on his tongue, the metallic touch lacing into his thoughts. He didn’t speak. His eyes traced the smears over his comm systems, the keyboard, Q’s headset settled over a sodden patch of carpet.

He slammed into M’s office without warning, without knocking. “Is he alive?” Bond asked, throat almost completely closed; he couldn’t imagine what in the hell he would do if Q was dead, if for _whatever_ reason, every instinct was on high alert quite correctly, signalling the death of the first man he had ever fallen in love with.

“Sit down, Bond,” M said quietly; bile rose slightly. M’s tone implied the worst. Bond remained standing. “There was an incident in Q-branch.”

“ _Is he alive?!_ ” Bond hissed, actively _trembling_ with anger, with fear.

His legs nearly collapsed from under him when M nodded once, sharply. “He is comatose. MI6 was breached, as you are aware; Q was shot in the stomach. Neutralised his assailant, locked down the office; he kept himself alive through that. Four other Q-branch members were killed when further assailants attempted to break in. Q lost a considerable amount of blood. His state is critical, at present, but for now, yes. He is alive.”

“The hostiles have been removed?”

“Yes. He’s in Medical. You won’t be able to see him until he’s stable, but I will suspend any further active missions, and indeed your debrief, until we have further confirmed information.”

Bond nodded, impossibly grateful; M could be a very balanced human being from time to time. He took his leave without asking for permission, seeking out Q like a magnet, inexorably drawn.

As expected, he was forbidden from seeing his partner. Bond set up camp outside the Medical area, and waited.


	22. The shot!Bond fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello could you please write a fic where Bond breaks into Q's flat and Q thinks he is an intruder and actually shoots him?? Thanks :) - shertealocked

Q slept with a loaded gun.

He was an MI6 operative, and a high-end one at that. Security systems were excellent things, but could always be circumnavigated. Q needed protection, and there were very few things better than a loaded gun for security.

He woke at three in the morning to hear noises in the next room. He wrapped his fingers around his gun, knocking his glasses of his bedside table; he cursed slightly. It would be light enough to see if there was somebody there, regardless.

Q slid to the door in his pyjamas, listening carefully. The noise again; there was somebody there.

Fear thrummed, adrenaline spiking abruptly. His flat was a secure location, and if somebody had broken it, it wasn’t a petty burglary. They were after him. He honestly had no option but take affirmative action before it was too late.

He pressed the MI6 emergency call button on the right-hand side of the door, hand tightening around the handle.

He pulled it open, saw the somewhat foggy silhouette of somebody by his sofa, dressed in dark clothes. He fired two shots.

The invader went down with a cry.

A horribly familiar cry, actually.

Q darted to the invader’s side; the shots were far from clean. Q’s aim was off enough when he was in glasses. The man was still breathing, just barely.

It was only when Q got close enough that he realised. “James, James _no_.”

Bond’s eyes were closed, blood seeping across Q’s carpet. What had he done, what the _fuck_ had he done? “James, shit, _shit_ , talk to me. James. Why would you… jesus _fuck_ , James…”

He was still swearing, sobbing, shaking when MI6 arrived. They transferred Bond’s body onto a gurney, wrapped Q in a shock blanket, carted him to Medical in a separate vehicle. When it became obvious that he would not calm down any time soon, they plied him with narcotics.

Q passed out, James’s blood under his fingernails, horror rendering him completely immobile.

\---

Q had stopped sleeping altogether.

The security measures in his flat had been escalated, once again, but Q wasn’t actually living there any longer. He was supposedly sleeping in a side-room off Q-branch – safest place in the world, as far as Q was concerned – so he could be either distracting himself with work, or near Bond.

In practise, he was a living human example of how long the human body can go without any real sleep.

Four days so far, and counting. He was beginning to make minor coding errors, a real drop in standards. Q-branch were obviously worried, and rightfully so. Q continued drinking tea in absurd quantities – when that stopped working quite so well, he started on simple caffeine pills. He contacted Medical every few hours.

Bond would lie. He would have a long while of physical rehabilitation, but he would live, and he would even be able to continue work as an active agent if his healing remained uninterrupted.

The blood loss had come remarkably close to killing him.

Q started hallucinating close to the fifth day. Only minor – just people where there were none, seeing codes and numbers on blank screens, his mind playing tricks. Somebody in Q-branch contacted Medical. When Q made it quite clear that they would achieve nothing with his ‘free will’, they got R to lace Q’s tea with a narcotic, and hauled him down unwillingly.

When he woke up – pissed off beyond measure – he found Medical had been locked down to prevent his untimely escape. Bastards. It also meant that Q was trapped in a room with his probably now ex-boyfriend, who he had very nearly killed.

Q and Bond had methods of contact for safety. Bond would contact Q if he was returning from a mission early, Q would lower some measures around the flat, Bond would whine about how irritating it was having to go through this every time he visited his boyfriend.

Q had quipped once again Bond _living_ in a flat with those measures, with him, one day. Q could still see Bond’s smile when he closed his eyes.

He would never forgive himself for this. At a loss for much else to do, he sat by Bond’s bedside, fingers tracing his pale face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to air, refusing to look at the mess of bandages over his torso. He had come _so close_ to killing him.

“… you’re a shit shot,” a voice rasped; Q’s eyes widened, as the spark of blue caught him.

_James._

_\---  
_

“Oh _god_ ,” Q breathed. “James, I am so sorry, I just…”

“Shh,” Bond moaned at him; his head was killing him, and Q’s predictable litany of apologies was really not what he needed in that moment. His tongue wasn’t quite responding either, leaving every motion or word feeling as though it was delving through treacle. “M’not dead, then?”

Q’s laugh was faintly hysterical. “No. You’ll be fine, James, I just… I’m sorry,” he said again, hand twitching as he tore himself apart half-reaching, half-restraining, very aware that Bond may well no longer want to be with him. He had, after all, _shot him_.

“Q. I broke into your flat,” Bond said; he tried to shrug, gave an irate moan at the lack of motion. “I’d have done that too, s’only safe.”

There were many more things Bond wanted to say; he could read in Q’s expression how scared the young man was, and really, that was understandable. But his head was beginning to spin again, exhaustion making each word spectacularly difficult, and he couldn’t quite manage to express that to Q before passing out again.

-

He woke up to see Q, reading a novel Bond half-recognised, looking like the walking dead. “When d’you last sleep?” Bond slurred; he would need to have words about how much medication they plugged him with, not being able to form sentences was _impossibly_ irritating.

Q jumped, swore. “James. Hi.”

“Not my question.”

“You’re surprisingly stubborn, for somebody who I nearly killed,” Q tried to joke, his voice cracking at the end of the sentence. Q was so terribly expressive; the guilt was drawn over him in hideous detail, the abandonment of sleep and food. If he was down in Medical, somebody had presumably intervened, but apparently not enough to make him eat or sleep. “How’re you feeling?” Q asked, voice fragile.

“Q, you look like shit.”

“Not my question,” Q said with a half-hearted laugh; he started to crumple very faintly around the edges, expression folding in on itself. “James…”

“You did the only sensible thing. It’s ok,” Bond said, waving a hand at him in the hope of shutting off the absurd apologies. “Stop worrying. Still love you.”

Q’s cheeks flushed, and then drained of colour again in almost the same instant. “… What?”

Bond tried to laugh, ended up wincing awkwardly. “I’d’ve thought that was obvious,” Bond managed, flopping a very un-dextrous hand out towards Q, cursing again at the lack of responsiveness in his extremities.

Q finally allowed himself to reach out properly, unable to quite believe it – Bond forgave him. “I _shot_ you,” Q repeated, wondering whether he’d done Bond brain-damage in the process of shooting him.

“D’you _want_ me t’be angry?” Bond muttered crossly, fingers weakly closing around Q’s. “’Also, not a conventional reply to ‘I love you’.”

“James, of _course_ I love you,” Q spluttered, thankfully just managing to avoid tears. “I just… I’m so sorry, I would never want to…”

“S’ _fine_ ,” Bond said again, trying to ineffectually squeeze Q’s fingers, feeling his vision blurring towards sleep once again. He truly was very tired. “Really, Q. S’all fine. Now _sleep_ , please. Be safe, for me.”

Q nodded, brushing light kisses against Bond’s knuckles, watching the double-oh agent slide back out of consciousness.

-

Medical staff walked in the next morning to find Q finally sleeping. draped across the unharmed areas of his lover, head cushioned on Bond’s leg, their fingers inextricably twined together.


	23. The Mindreader!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your fics are wonderful! If it hasn't already been done, could you please write one where Q can read minds and tells Bond by accident? - anon

_dinner on Tuesday no idea what I’m doing he’s watching he’s interested he likes me she’s flirting it’s Monday hate Mondays hate this job I’m hungry ten past eleven double-oh agents are useless need coffee should offer coffee will get coffee no he’s getting coffee alright finish this then home bloody late shifts too many disasters I…_

“… and this is your earpiece,” Q completed with a flourish, trying to tune out the incessant babbling; the white noise of Q-branch was particularly bad with the door open, meaning cosmic irony led Bond to leave it ajar.

_Bet it’s like the last that wouldn’t work long range, that was a complete abortion from start to finish…_

“No, actually, this has been improved substantially,” Q said tetchily. “Long-range should be absolutely fine. And for the record, that mission was not my fault.”

There was a long, uneasy silence, broken only for Q by the running sounds of Bond’s very loud thoughts.

_I definitely didn’t say any of that out loud. So how…?_

“Erm… Q?” Bond asked slowly, apparently far more eloquent in thought than speech. “What just happened?”

_He’d better have a good explanation for this. Mind probes. Some type of scanner. Something able to get into the human mind…_

“If that had been created, I would definitely have it,” Q said with a snort, laughing louder at Bond’s expression. “Bond, you’re not going to like it.”

_That as may be, I am damn well going to find out…_

Q could read that Bond would remain true to his word – it would be a cold day in hell before Bond conceded defeat on this point. Q sighed exaggeratedly, inspiring a slew of new thoughts from Bond.

“Bond, I can mindread,” he said simply.

 _Bullshit_.

“No, entirely true,” Q replied; Bond was gaping, mind running _whatwhatwhatwhatwhat_ through his head like some frightening mantra. “Mindreader. It can happen. I am in tune with other people’s thoughts. Believe me, not fun a lot of the time.”

_Oh good god this is true_

“Yes. I’m sorry, this may take some getting around,” Q murmured apologetically.

_Jesus, he’s answering my thoughts. My thought, I… I should think of talking directly to him… okay, Q, can you hear… what am I doing, I am THINKING, not…_

“Diverting monologue, but we have work to do,” Q told him; both of them suddenly froze at the image that flashed, unbidden, in front of both their eyes. Q blinked. “I…”

“Sorry, errant thought,” Bond said quickly. A lesser human would have been blushing. _Most_ people would have been blushing at anything _that_ graphic…

Okay then.

This promised to get a bit frightening for all concerned.

\---

Bond, once the shock had worn off, didn’t seem to mind tremendously that Q was in his head all the time. To be quite honest, it actually made flirting _considerably_ easier; Bond just let his mind run wild, and smirked at the Quartermaster’s reactions.

He started to direct his thoughts. Of course, the slight downside was that Q could read that he was deliberately manipulating his own thoughts, and consequently got rather annoyed at Bond’s non-verbal manner of annoying him.

Bond took to visiting Q-branch on an almost hourly basis, mostly just to supply Q with a new image he’d been thinking up, or a scenario. The scenarios were fun. Given the colour Q turned at the image of being bound to the bed and being mercilessly fucked, Bond was getting a rather detailed idea of Q’s sexual proclivities.

Q was apparently too busy to notice Bond’s latest thoughts; he started ranting the moment Bond came within range.

“ _Somebody_ in Q-branch has had ‘Gangnam Style’ in their head all _fucking_ morning,” Q snapped at Bond, trying to arrange paperwork. “Whenever I walk through, I can just this underlying bloody tune, and I am _inches_ away from taking potshots at all of them just to see whether I can make it stop.”

Bond blinked. “Not necessarily the most sensible idea you’ve ever come up with,” he commented lightly. “The ‘thought police’ takes on a new meaning.”

Q flicked Bond the finger, and took a sudden breath as Bond’s latest image installed itself in both of their heads. “You have to stop doing that,” Q muttered breathlessly. _Oh_ , Bond had one hell of imagination.

“Let me take you dinner,” Bond negotiated. Q listened to the underlying thoughts as Bond asked, seeing Bond’s impression of dinner; he meant _real_ wining and dining, a posh restaurant, both of them dressed up, Q in what looked like a rather well-tailored suit. That was optimistic. Bond intended to really treat him, find what he liked, explore it.

Really, when faced with the absolute honesty of thoughts like that, it was near-impossible to refuse.

“Where?” Q asked; he snorted slightly as Bond’s mind rattled through restaurants, ranging from the Four Seasons _too pretentious, Q would hate it_ , filtering through cuisines _Italian is cliché, Chinese in no sense romantic_ , before settling on a very up-market Thai restaurant.

“I like Thai,” Q commented mildly, before Bond could say a word out loud. He looked slightly upset, for a moment; as Q listened, he started clouding off his thoughts, deliberately obscuring them with intentional concentration on peripheral objects.

“I’m going to surprise you,” Bond said, thinking carefully about Q’s desk, just his desk, the words just filtering through as thought, mostly blocked by the intricate details of Q’s desk. “I’ll pick you up at eight?”

Q couldn’t help but grin, as Bond’s concentration slipped, and the man started rattling through restaurant ideas again with very endearing fervour. “Done,” he said with a smile, watching Bond leave before his thoughts betrayed his ideas.

\---

Credit where due, Bond was managing to cloud his thoughts _beautifully_. He kept playing various songs in his head, usually on loop; Q was going mad listening to them, he had no _idea_ how Bond was coping with it.

“Opera?” he commented lightly, as strains of _Romeo and Juliet_ sailed from Bond. Bond’s concentration slipped for a slight second; Q had a sudden glimpse of emotion, of worry and care and tension, before Bond concentrated harder again.

“I like opera, when it is done well,” Bond told him; Q suddenly heard flashes of other operas, from single arias into swelling, climaxing choral pieces. A sudden shriek, a gunshot, playing through Bond’s memory, images of a mission, of a stage and of people and of stress, the last time Bond had been near an opera.

Q made a mental note to take Bond to the opera. After his little mental medley, he even had an idea of what type of opera Bond liked.

Bond guided Q towards an unbelievably posh-looking restaurant. “I feel underdressed,” Q noted; he was in a suit, as ordered, but he hated suits, and felt rather silly.

He had a snapshot of Bond’s image of him, cloaked in an odd surrounding aura of tenderness and affection. Odd emotions to ascribe to James, Q mused to himself, but reciprocated; Bond looked unbelievable, as always, and the firm pressure on his lower back felt oddly comforting, as he was led to a table.

Q’s heart danced in his chest. Bond had called in advance; the table was quite removed from the rest of the restaurant, isolated and quiet. He didn’t have to be plagued by the thoughts of every single person in the building. Bond had actually _thought of that_.

“Yes, I do,” Q murmured, before Bond opened his mouth. Bond grinned, asked the waiter for the house speciality before returning his attention to just Q. “Why does _everyone_ assume I’m teetotal?”

“You don’t seem the type to get outrageously drunk, and do things you regret,” Bond told him, with a knife-edge smile. Q raised an eyebrow at the images Bond threw up throughout that sentence, thoughts of what a drunken Q would be like.

“That last one is nearly correct,” Q said lightly; Bond started flicking through thoughts again faster than light, trying to work out _which_ fleeting thought Q had tacked onto. “… There you are.”

Bond’s eyes widened slightly, and Q laughed. “Lucky me,” he said aloud. “What are you thinking to eat?”

“How about I order?” Q smirked, as Bond worked out what he wanted, mind immediately skipping to his favourite dishes before even opening the menu. Bond turned his palms to the ceiling, settling back, letting Q take over as the waiter approached with their wine, and took the order.

Q half-listened to the waiter fret about his acting career, and recent audition, while he ordered. “Well done,” Bond said in a low, light voice.

It was wonderful, to be in a restaurant without the constant voices. Just Bond – and to be honest, Bond was not an unwelcome presence. “Thank you,” Q said, very close to being shy. “You managed to surprise me.”

Bond nodded, lifted his wine glass in a toast. “Long may it continue.”

\---

It was alright, Q’s eccentricity, almost all of the time. He had learned to filter, to take out all the mundane rubbish of day to day existence, the thoughts of lunches and arguments and families and work, the faint emotional transference easily managed.

The problems reared through stressful situations, through traumas. Q, able to see the worst of people’s thoughts, able to _feel_ them, to a degree; a panic in Q-branch, everybody’s thoughts translating to incoherent panic and fear, magnified in Q’s own mind by the dozens thinking the same at once, the overwhelming nature of it reducing Q to helpless tears, overcome by the wave of emotion.

He started having to conduct high-stress scenarios in his office, to avoid the onslaught. It was rare, but not worth risking.

The few days of Q’s being held hostage were by far the worst.

It was difficult enough being hurt in the first place – Q had training, but it remained unpleasant. Seeing the echoes images of his own body and, more frighteningly, what they planned to do to him; that was far worse. Reading how far they would go, how far they had gone before.

Q whimpered frantically, unable to escape somebody else’s imaginings, of him bound and broken, spilling information. He began losing his perception of reality.

Bond found him, of course, as Bond always did and always would.

Bond saw Q, Q seeing himself again, bloodied and beaten. Bond started struggling with his own memories of captivity; Q was treated to the immediacy of Bond’s memories, of horrific things, of remembered pain that still stabbed once in a while, now a sudden rush.

Q felt his own pain, Bond’s remembered pain.

It was too much. He passed out.

When he woke up, Q’s mind was utterly addled. Semi-darkness, repetitive images, half of his thoughts belonging to somebody else; he reached out for James, remembering Bond’s memories, sobbing as they initiated.

“It’s okay,” Bond soothed, his own thoughts carefully controlled again; controlling one’s thoughts when angry, or scared, was nigh on impossible. Now, he had the scope to be careful, trying to think of happier memories. Dinner, and surprises, and soft smiles that nobody else could see. “My poor Q…”

“I’m so sorry,” Q hiccupped at him a few moments later. “ _God_ James, I’m so sorry, I never realised how…”

“Shh,” Bond tried again; he couldn’t hold Q, not yet, but he could still offer forms of comfort. He thought about holding Q, how he felt, intentionally let himself think of all the ways he loved Q.

Q thanked him in a soft, hollow voice. “Love you too,” he murmured, and slid back into sleep.


	24. The Homophobia fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ¡Hello there darlings! Just asking for another prompt: we all know that the world isn't perfect, so in some way, 00Q experiences an homophobic attack? Or just Q, he's so scared and all he wants to do it's hug James? THANK YOU. (Ps. You're the best. *heart heart hug hug*) - speaksarcastically

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lex.
> 
> Shipimpala is a goddess, and made this to go with the fills:
> 
> http://shipimpala.tumblr.com/post/43991511760/he-would-be-brave-for-james-this-by-jen

“It’s the bender again!”

The sentence sent a thrum of pure adrenaline through Q’s body. Bond was in HQ, Q had taken a _single_ day off in the last several weeks to wind up with a collection of morons talking about him loudly, the language rather self-explanatory.

He took a level breath, picking up speed. He wanted to go home, he _just_ wanted to get the hell home. He’d seen this collection of thugs before, seven of them, all early twenties or slightly younger, all of them minimal level intelligence.

Jesus. _Jesus_. They were following him.

Q kept himself steady, as they tracked closer, as the insults became more varied and more painful. His tablet was in a hidden pocket of his messenger bag, which was slung over his shoulder; to be honest, he was more worried about protecting that, than himself.

Another one popped up in front of him; Q stopped dead. He began to consider whether he had a hope in hell of fighting his way out, as he looked behind him, finding more of them.

One, an obvious ringleader. Another three, his vanguard. Another three beyond that, who were there to observe and keep watch.

The far three were irrelevant, had tacked onto the gang for protection, were not even slightly interested in the events about to unfold. The leader – and the vanguard – were the ones to worry about.

“Hey faggot,” the leader said, louder; Q sucked in another breath, as he was pulled back by the shoulder, backed into the street wall. Not a bloody soul in sight, completely surrounded. _Fuck_.

“I don’t want trouble,” Q said simply, calmly. “Let me go.”

“Where’s your faggot boyfriend?”

Another breath, and he didn’t answer; there seemed no point. The punch caught him in the stomach, folding forward. This was liable to escalate very quickly, and thus, it did.

The bloody injustice of it. He was an MI6 officer, a very high-ranking one. He had protected the lives of people like this, so many times, only to have them despise him because he happened to be gay. They had bothered to _remember_ him from a dinner with James; back then, they had catcalled, nothing more. James was quite frightening when he glared.

It hurt, and he wanted James. He wanted Bond to kill these people, but more than anything, he wanted to be told that this was nothing. He wanted Bond to hold him, and scare anything that tried to hurt him. Childish, yes, but falling in love gave him the freedom to _not_ be an adult, all of the time. He needed James for often very childish reasons, _love, care, want_ , and that was never wrong.

Blood rushed into his mouth through a split lip. They were getting bored now; Q wasn’t responding much, for safety’s sake, and they were just hinging on reactions. A fight, a cry, anything. Q just waited for them to stop, letting his mind wander back to James.

In the same thought: he didn’t want James to know. This would hurt him, knowing Q had been targeted like this, and over something James was vulnerable about himself. A lifetime of heterosexuality had gone up in smoke with Q; knowing their relationship could lead to _this_ could prove too much.

Somebody spat on him. Then another. Q took the indignity, and quietly thanked that his laptop was unharmed. They didn’t seem concerned by his possessions, thankfully, although they did take great joy in stamping on his glasses.

He could not tell James.

They left him alone eventually, peeling off into the world beyond this street. Q uncurled, gasping in pain; it was a nasty beating, not too severe, but nasty nonetheless. Staggering home without glasses would be the more irritating part.

He slid through the front door, grappled for his spare glasses. Limped into the kitchen, found ice, painkillers, checked himself over. Bond would be panicked enough as soon as he saw. No need to tell him the full parameters.

He would be brave, for James.

\---

“No, James, I’m fine,” Q said quickly, batting him away because god _damn it_ , if Bond was sympathetic now his resolve would shatter in seconds. The adrenaline needed to get him home had faded out altogether; pain now thrummed through him semi-regularly, not quite muted _enough_ by the heavy-duty drugs he usually reserved for James when he came home off a bad mission.

Bond was watching him with a visceral type of anger; if directed at him, Q would have felt genuinely frightened for his life. As it was, Q couldn’t help the small buzz of gratitude; Bond loved him enough to get this angry. Idiotic, but a comfort regardless.

“What did they take?” Bond asked coldly.

“My bloody phone, most importantly, and my wallet. My favourite false ID is therefore out the window,” Q shrugged. He would dispose of the afore-mentioned items soon; in the interim, he had his other wallets and a backup phone, it was hardly a catastrophe. “I’m just glad they didn’t take the laptop, don’t think they could see it in the bag.”

Bond didn’t believe him. That much was transparently obvious. Q, however, was not about to tell Bond – who was barely getting over his own sexuality crisis – that he had been targeted by homophobes. He could take the beating, if it meant keeping Bond.

Bond let it lie, and resolved to have a word with sympathisers in Q-branch the next morning.

-

Q got himself into work on a haze of co-codamol, and sincerely regretted not having anything stronger in the flat. Given the worrying pain levels across his ribs, and indeed abdomen, he would also need to go to Medical without alerting Bond. Quite honestly, that bordered on the impossible.

Bond pretended not to notice that Q headed down to Medical after about ten minutes in Q-branch. He took the opportunity to flirt and coerce his way into the CCTV around the area Q got mugged, with help from Q-branch kids. They were all rather protective of their Quartermaster; it was a lot easier than he had expected.

Q had beaten him to it. Every shred of evidence had vanished, the CCTV for several miles all gone. “Okay. Trace Q’s usual working mobile.”

“It’s off, but in his office,” the reply came back, within a moment or two. Bond took a breath; Q was lying. For whatever reason, Q was lying to him.

Bond headed down to Medical.

-

“One hell of a mugging,” Bond commented drily; Q’s chest had been wrapped in uncomfortably tight bandages, and he’d been informed that he had kidney damage – extreme discomfort and bloody urine was to be expected. They had supplied him with pretty much limitless supplies of pure codeine, for the ribs.

Anaesthesia made bravery quite a lot easier. Q steeled himself, prepared to avoid the questions at all costs.

“Please leave it,” he asked Bond quietly. Bond was refusing to let it lie, absolutely certain that Q was lying to him, and Bond couldn’t for the life of him work out why. “James, _please_. For me. I’m fine. No lasting damage.”

“Was it to do with the job?” Bond pressed. “If somebody tracked you down…”

“ _No_. For god’s _sake_ , stop it.”

Q didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to forget about it altogether. He also wanted to find a new flat, a very long way away from the gang of teenagers who thought it would be clever to target him. It could quite easily happen again – they knew whereabouts he was, they knew he couldn’t fight back very effectively.

He hadn’t felt like this since school. Kids beating him up because they disliked who he was, and assumed – even if Q hadn’t yet worked it out – that he was gay. Q had lived in that world all his life, and it never got easier. It would be frankly cruel to ask James to live with it too; Bond could take care of himself, this would never touch him in the same way.

Q could handle this on his own, and would. It didn’t stop every fibre of him screaming out – this was not his fault. He wanted James to guard him from everything, pathetic as it sounded, even from the teenage bastards who had insinuated themselves into his life and his head.

Bond was getting angry, and it was _killing_ Q to see him like this. “James. You need to trust me. Just… please, don’t go. I can’t tell you everything, and I’m sorry, but… please, trust me?”

Q, with a bruised cheekbone and the too-quick breaths that came of chest pain, was not anything Bond could ignore. He would get it out of Q eventually, that much he knew.

For now, he folded Q into his arms, and let the younger man curl up into him as though he wanted to disappear altogether.

\---

Q healed, piece by piece. He refused to discuss what had happened; Bond was getting very used to the stony, cold silence that accompanied his queries. He eventually gave up. There seemed no point.

Life continued. Q was picked up by MI6 each morning, rather than walking to work. Bond didn’t make a deal of it, despite knowing Q had always liked his walk – a small amount of exercise, fresh air, time on his own. He had lost something important, odd though it sounded.

Bond took over the little things, like grocery shopping – Q came with him, but bluntly refused to go on his own. While Bond was on missions, Q got supermarket deliveries. They worked around it, slowly, tentatively.

About a month later, Bond took them both out to dinner. Q had established he was happy as long as Bond was around, so it seemed like a nice idea.

They were a few streets away when Bond swore to himself, asking: “Did you take the phone?”

Q’s eyes narrowed; Bond had said he would be responsible for it. “No…”

“It’s at home. Will you be alright for a minute or two while I run and get it?” Bond asked, with just a touch of apology. Q shrugged. There was nobody around – Bond could get to and from the flat in a matter of minutes, if he wanted. He nodded, a little anxiously, and Bond vanished.

It was odd. The fear settled somewhere in his ribcage, made him shudder slightly.

The wolf-whistle was perhaps the single most frightening thing Q had ever heard. The fear leapt up, strangling his heart, filling his lungs, choking him. “Back for more?” a voice crowed.

“I really wouldn’t,” Q said, with more calm and _far_ more bravado than he actually felt. Bond would back in a minute, just another minute, he could – he _would_ – last another minute. “Walk away.”

“Why? Your poofter boyfriend gonna come after us?”

“Yes, actually,” Q replied, voice squealing slightly on the second word; he cursed himself, hating himself for everything, the weakness and the bloody, goddamn terror that _refused_ to go away.

The bodies appeared long after the voices, more sinister in the twilight of the evening, already caging him in. “Thought we made it clear that _your sort_ aren’t wanted?” the ringleader asked rhetorically. “Fucking disgusting…”

Q wondered faintly if he should go to the MI6 boot camp for self-defence – two weeks of vomit-inducing, non-stop exercise. He’d avoided them all like the plague, up to this point; he was never going to be well-placed in a fight, with his build.

It would make him feel vaguely better though.

His ribs ached, just to remind him of last time.

Bond. He needed James. Please, not again, not _again_. This wasn’t fair. He could deal with this once, he’d dealt with worse, but the same group, a second time, terrorising him out of living a goddamn normal life, making him ask himself he should be with Bond, making him wish passionately to be somebody other than he was, some _thing_ other.

They circled closer, mocking him, taunting him.

All of this made him ask himself, once again, if there was something wrong with him. If it really _was_ wrong. If actually, he was some aberration, something so repulsive that he deserved this.

Did he?

“Step away from him now, and I will consider not shooting you.”

Q could feel the brick wall rasping against his overcoat, where he’d backed himself up; the proverbial hyenas prepared to attack, Q’s hands knotted into tight, white-knuckled fists, talking to himself in an inaudible voice _jesus where the fuck is James_ and eyes darting in frenetic panic, trying to find a way out.

Bond’s statement cut through everything. Q immediately looked to him. “James, I…”

“It’s the other homo faggot!” one of them yelled delightedly. One who, apparently, hadn’t grasped just how precariously lethal the situation was.

Bond took a handful of steps forward; the sudden movement made Q flinch slightly, Bond’s expression clouding further in on itself. “Q?” he asked, voice tight.

Q was trembling, eyes very slightly glossy as he re-scanned the gang, who were debating amongst themselves if they could take both Q and Bond. Really, a spectacularly bad idea – two of the peripheral gang members, who had brains, ran the moment they realised.

Bond was going to _kill them_.

-

James wrapped Q in the duvet, Q cradling a Scrabble mug of pure scotch, watching James through wide, sad eyes. “James…”

“I know why you didn’t tell me,” James said carefully, hand carefully tucked around Q’s face, cherishing him through gesture. “Q, you’re my partner. Kindly remember that, next time?”

“Next time?” Q said, with a half-sobbed hiccup.

Bond smiled faintly. “There’s always a ‘next time’. Something, somebody, will attack us both for this. MI6 dislike it already; we’re both high-ranking secret service, and gay. It is far from liked by higher powers.”

Q knew that. MI6 would split them in a heartbeat, if they could. They were not accepted. Yes, of _course_ there would be a ‘next time’. The important aspect was how they dealt with it, Bond told him, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

“I love you,” Q said frankly, as Bond talked him off the ledge, quite perfectly.

Bond kissed his forehead chastely. “I love you too,” he said, with absolute sincerity.

Q, despite himself, smiled. ** _  
_**


	25. The Sex Tape fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Bond sex tape is going around the computers of pretty much the whole MI6. They find out in a very akward way. ((Thaaanks)) - anon

Bond noticed long before Q did.

His branch had started to blush whenever Bond was in the vicinity. Literally; Bond merely had to walk into Q-branch, before everybody turned vaguely beetroot, and started acting very busy while watching him go to Q’s office.

Q was completely oblivious. He often was; he could tell you the interpersonal dynamics of people he’d never met halfway across the world, but Q-branch politics were completely beyond him.

In Q-branch’s favour, they did a spectacular job of keeping it away from their boss, and their boss’s boyfriend. Still. It could only last so long.

M called the pair of them into the office. Bond was already vaguely suspicious. Q suspected little more than a word on a new mission, or something similar.

“I need to ask you both about a film, that has been going viral around MI6,” M stated clearly; Q’s eyebrows furrowed. If there was a video going viral, he would have known about it. Bond, meanwhile, felt himself go pale. He had a horrible, terrible feeling about this.

There is nothing quite like your boss swivelling a computer screen around, to show a film of you and another colleague having very passionate sex against afore-mentioned colleague’s desk.

Q went an unbelievable shade of green; Bond contemplated handing him over the bin to throw up in there and then. Bond, for his part, decided to emanate a statue. If he didn’t move, he wouldn’t be visible, or so some odd instinct seemed to scream.

Bond realised they would be waiting a very long time for Q to try and formulate any type of coherent sentence. He tried instead. “That… well, the Quartermaster and I are in a relationship.”

“That much, 007, is patently obvious,” M commented drily.

Q looked like he wanted to die, right there and then, on the spot, leaving no trace that he existed or indeed had _ever_ existed. Bond and M watched him as he started to shake very slightly. “He may need assistance,” Bond commented; M nodded.

“I’m fine,” Q managed, in a bizarre pitched voice. “I… I will certainly be ensuring the removal of that… of… _oh god_.”

“We will need to have a further discussion about your relationship, and your constituent roles in MI6; your security details will need to be amended, et cetera,” M said, more businesslike; Bond reached out, trying to de-mould Q from his chair, despite the younger man looking like he would quite happily meld into it if anybody would give him half the chance.

“My apologies,” Bond said formally; M just rolled his eyes.

“Not in HQ,” he told them firmly, allowing Bond to assist a very stiff-backed Q out of his office.

Bond waited a few minutes for Q to recover. “Are you alright?” he asked gently, hand cupping Q’s face. Q’s expression was wild, livid, mute, terrified.

“I’m going to _kill them_ ,” he hissed, and started storming towards Q-branch.

\---

Q had honestly thought there was nothing more horrifying than a sex tape of him and his new partner going viral around MI6. Apparently, he was very wrong.

The one thing more horrifying than a sex tape going viral: _multiple_ sex tapes going viral.

Q worked a _lot_. He wasn’t at home very often. Both he and Bond were quite tactile beings. In short, they had spent a considerable proportion of their relationship in MI6, mostly in Q’s office; coffee, lunch, dinner, days, night, and a fair amount of sex. Q’s room was soundproofed and, he _thought_ , private.

It was Q combing the internal servers to find a cached _folder_ of he and Bond’s interactions that finally tipped him over the edge.

A fair amount of Q-branch was single. The ones in relationships tended to be more junior, given that their work commitments were consequently less. The one universal about a collection of adults with ages ranging from nineteen to mid-thirties was that _all_ had laptops, and thus, internet histories.

From there, it was child’s play.

Q’s immediate subordinates, the higher-ranking Q-branch members, were the ones best-placed to circulate the video. They were the first targets. In a single day and night of misfortune, R – and four others, slightly less senior – had their internet histories and requisite sexual tendencies plastered across MI6.

In a particularly inspired move, Q managed to send the details _accidently_ to every single person in MI6’s address book; it should have been a physical impossibility given the sheer size of MI6, but Q was angry. Very angry.

Bond watched all of it with palpable amusement. “I don’t see how it matters,” he noted quietly. “We’re in a relationship, and have been professional…”

“You don’t run a branch of MI6 that have all witnessed you taking it up the arse from a double-oh agent,” Q snapped lividly. Bond rolled his eyes, sighed. Q was impossible to deal with like this.

He placed his hands on Q’s shoulder, massaging gently. “Come on now,” he soothed. “It’ll blow over. Destroying other people’s lives is really not necessary…”

“Don’t you dare try to stop me.”

“Stop you? My dear Q,” Bond murmured, breath hot against Q’s ear, tongue dancing a thin stripe along the side of Q’s neck. “I’m merely planning to distract you.”


	26. The Love Triangle fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love triangle with Moneypenny. Or something where she's in love with Q. Thanks! Your fics are wonderful. - anon

Eve kept her heart locked firmly away in her chest. It was frankly dangerous not to. Apart from anything else, if Bond caught wind of her feelings towards their Quartermaster, he would probably tear her apart. Quite slowly.

Nevertheless; Q was quiet, and fiendishly intelligent, and had a devilish sense of humour. He flirted without intention, could hold his drink in a way that put Bond to shame, worked with hysterical fervour.

Eve had the very unfortunate sense that she was in love with Q.

Unfortunate, in that Bond was quite obviously suffering from the same affliction. Unfortunate, in that Q was quite definitely not straight.

It was just not fair. Not only had Eve fallen hopelessly for the same person as _James Bond_ , of all dangerous people, but he was _gay_.

All the best men were gay.

There would be no point asking him out; she had scouted around Q-branch for the confirmation that Q was gay, found it in a multitude of places (interestingly), and moaned slightly, coming to terms with the fact that she would just have to keep staring at Q, doing nothing.

Eve was quite seriously considering murdering Bond, as well. He was not being especially helpful. He had asked Q out, successfully, and was being a complete _bastard_ about it.

He was practically preening, prior to afore-mentioned date.

Eve just pinned him against the wall by the throat, and informed him that if any harm came to Q, she would kill him without hesitation.

Bond sensed that she was being _very_ serious. He rasped out his agreement, wincing when she released him. She was _not_ a woman to upset.

Eve may not have been able to have Q. She was damn well going to keep him safe regardless. If that involved upsetting an upstart double-oh agent in the process, so be it.

\---

Eve slammed agent 007 into the wall, pinning him there by the throat. Bond had enough time to feel some mild shock, before she’d adapted her position to make it potentially very painful for him to move.

“Do you have _any idea_ what you’ve done?!” she hissed, inches from his face. “You couldn’t keep it in your trousers, could you? Q is devastated…”

“It was for a _mission_ ,” Bond snapped back, restraining himself from calling her a mad bitch for pinning him to the wall and holding his testicles hostage.

Eve had long nails. Bond’s eyes widened incrementally with pain, before relaxing intentionally again. “You could have easily avoided it,” Eve pointed out correctly. “Why didn’t you?”

“I really think this is between Q and I,” Bond suggested; a pinch, this time, and he gasped very slightly. Eve had officially lost the plot, she had finally gone completely fucking crazy. “Why do you care so much?!”

She took a long breath, calming slightly. “It’s Q,” she said. The breathtaking simplicity in her tone explained everything; it was just fact, for her. Q was important, beyond anything. Bond understood that better than most.

“Eve, I’m not going to hurt him if I can ever avoid it,” he said carefully. “I know you care about him, but _so do I_. Now kindly let go of my balls.”

Eve obliged, stepping back; Bond rearranged himself slightly, glancing at the elongated nails on Eve’s fingers and feeling unsurprised at the pain levels. Crazy, crazy woman. “You will take care of him,” Eve told him firmly.

Bond nodded, entirely serious. There was no way in hell he was going to risk Eve doing this again. “Yes. I will.”


	27. The Depression fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been nursing this theory since seeing Skyfall but what if Q did survive depression at some point (maybe during university?) and everything with M dying/Silva only triggered a return of the illness? He ends up coming clean to Bond somehow and ends up only finding much needed support so 00Q sweetness as well? Love the prompts! - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for suicidal ideation, and depression.

He didn’t feel it coming. When it was there, however, he knew. It was like the return of an old friend, an old enemy. It lingered, twined in the sinews of his body and reminded him of a life half-forgotten, anaesthetised and sublimated by years of deliberate amnesia.

Fighting took so much. It was like being out at sea; the motion sweeps you inexorably towards peril, but fighting is so much harder than letting go. Clinging onto driftwood leaves splinters in the palms of your hands, so deep they seem to break through, scarring you with every second you continue to hold on.

Q watched the tide swallow him with a gentle _oh_ of realisation. The insomnia had a cause, the lingering, ceaseless sense of indefinable sadness had some origin, some root in the forgotten hell of a childhood, a teenagedom, he dreamed of forgetting.

Living through this again could prove too much. He doesn’t want to keep clinging on. The marks are barely faded from before. The world is muted already, will continue to descend to shades of monochrome, and by then it will be too late. The colourless, soundless ocean would swallow him whole.

“James, I believe I need your help,” Q murmured, in the quiet shade of a dim evening. Bond – alert, attentive, non-judgemental – listens to the story of a boy hurting so deeply he fought to prise it out, the pain written in thin patterns on skin and once, nearly choked out of him entirely.

Bond would not pretend to know how it felt, but he would take care of Q regardless. The young Quartermaster cried, with more pain than any one person should ever feel, drowning Bond in tears.

“Q, it’ll be alright,” Bond soothed, as Q melded against him and cried ceaselessly, never seeming to run dry, shifting from expressionless to a type of tangible devastation that was painful to watch.

He hated being like this, in front of James. He hated being like this more on his own, however. He hated being alone, end of. Bond freed him from loneliness, and loved him in spite of everything.

In the morning, they would discuss options. Safety and triggers and external help and all the sensible things. For now, it is enough for Q to cry, and Bond to hold him, and they will deal with the rest as it comes.

\---

They talk, eventually. Naturally. Q is keeping himself tied together through stubbornness and duty, neither of which are overly durable, will wear and fray and break open when he starts to spill over.

Q is fighting the most formidable enemy possible; himself. He is intelligent, and cunning, and lethal, and merciless. At war with himself, nuclear fission; he could take down half the world in the impending disaster, rippling damages from one focal point.

Bond watches. He can do little else. He can only love Q entirely, and hope it is enough.

For now, for a moment, it is. Without Bond there, he would have collapsed a long while previously, fallen to dust. Bond is not everything, cannot keep him alive, cannot keep him tethered – but he is enough to make Q recognise that he is fighting a losing battle. Bond’s presence is not enough on its own, but having Bond there gives him strength to call in reinforcements.

He has taken pills before, deemed them most placebos. He has run rings around therapists, who he vastly outstrips intellectually; he knows how they work, what they are trying to achieve, and dances around them. Therapy, once, was a playground, an academic exercise; he pushed out theories, cast distractions, led people twice his age into corners, revelling in knowing he could control at least _this_.

It was laughably ironic.

“This will pass,” he murmurs, hoping it remains true, as it has done historically. “It’ll go away again, like it did before. I never worked out what changed, but it did – it was like a cloud lifting. No reason, really, just luck. It finally stopped. I thought it had just got bored.”

The way Q talks, like it is a living entity. A demon that crouches in his formidable mind, and plays games with emotions – the one aspect of the mind that intelligence cannot control. It fiddles the levels, tunes in and out, finds the screeching point and leaves it running, constant, impossible, painful.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Bond promises, and entirely means it. He knows every way in which a person can die, and guards against all of them; their house is devoid of sharp objects overnight, the medicine cabinet is locked, the washing rack – with nylon cords – disappears. Bond quietly watches for the external signs of an internal pain; the nail that scratches a touch too deeply, the bruises that cannot quite be explained, the slim burn that could be passed off as accidental.

There are so many ways a person can die. There are infinite ways more in which a person can hurt. Bond cannot change, alter, affect whatever is happening in the wasteland of Q’s brain, but he can handle the fallout. Life is harder. Scissors are useful. They work around it, because the potential consequences are too great not to.

He cannot guard against everything, but he can make it harder. He can delay Q long enough for the rational to burst through, a surge of clarity leading him to a phone, calling out for help. If Bond makes it hard enough, the paralysis of emotional pain can set in; even the impetus to die can fade then, leaving Q curled on the floor of their flat, sobbing, unable to find a way out and hating himself for wanting to, crippled by his failure on every front.

 _“It will pass_ ,” Q tells Bond, praying he will understand, that he won’t leave. “I’m sorry, James, I’m so sorry…”

Bond holds him tighter, his heart screaming. This is the hardest thing he has ever done. Killing people for a living is easy. Keeping them alive is not.

He kisses Q gently, and swears he won’t leave. He is telling the truth.

It doesn’t make it any easier.


	28. The Bond shoots Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I have a prompt for yoouu: Bond has to take Q on one of his missions, when they are chasing the target through the streets, Bond takes a shot and accidentally shoots Q. Bond has to keep Q awake and tries to save him while they wait for the medical team to show up. If they make it or not is totally up to you. I’d also love to see/read Bond crying and shaking. Thank youuu! - anon

Bond didn’t notice until Q collapsed.

Q had kept himself standing through sheer willpower, as Bond dispatched their target; Bond hadn’t noticed that Q was standing a little far back, hadn’t taken further steps forward. “Alright, we need to move out,” Bond said, tone businesslike; he looked over to Q.

Q’s hand was over his side, the edges of the white skin of his hand blossoming with red. He smiled very slightly. “That could be difficult,” Q said quietly.

Which was the moment Q collapsed.

Bond took a sharp, snatched breath. “Med team _now_ ,” he roared into his earpiece, M’s voice in his ear. “Q’s hit.”

Bond ran through everything in his head, considering; Q had been running a few feet in front of him. Bond’s vision had tunnelled to his target, _just_ his target, and he’d been running flat-out too. He had been the only one firing.

He had shot Q.

He ducked to Q’s side, shrugging off his jacket. He bunched it up, moving Q’s hand out of the way to press the jacket against his side. Q let out a soft, plaintive cry, as Bond held the pressure, blood slicking his hands. “Q, look at me,” Bond ordered, as Q’s eyes started rolling slightly.

“ _James_ ,” his lips framed, eyelids fluttering slightly. Jesus, there was blood _everywhere,_ seeping into James’s jacket.

“Q, hey, look at me,” Bond repeated; he slapped Q’s cheek gently, getting him to focus properly. “Good, much better. Now you need to stay awake for me, just keep looking at me, Q, tell me about your new security systems on MI6, you meant to do that.”

Q started mumbling; his voice was too weak, but the words were there, the intention intact. “Good, you’re doing really well,” Bond soothed. “The med team will be here in a moment, I need you to stay awake for me.”

“Sorry,” Q whispered, finally clear words. “M’tired.”

“I know, but you can’t sleep right now,” Bond told him urgently, hands shaking, throat clogging painfully as Q’s eyes shuttered closed. “Q? _Q_.”

Q’s eyes had fallen shut altogether; Bond tried to slap him again, vision blurring, hand shaking out of all control. “No, _Q_ , you have to stay with me, please stay with me, _please_.”

Not like this. Please, _please_ not like this. He couldn’t watch Q die, not when it was his fault, not when some stray bullet from _his gun_ , the bloody personal statement Q had given him, had ripped a hole through Q’s body.

“Please,” Bond rasped again, hand caressing Q’s cheek. He watched as Q’s eyes lost focus, the feathery grip Q had on his wrist dying out altogether.

He couldn’t be dead. He _could not be_ dead.

Bond started screaming.

 ---

Q was comatose, had been comatose for several days now. Bond had shot his own boyfriend, culminating in his now-living in an MI6 funded hospital, refusing to leave. Bond had been conscious for pretty much as long as Q had been comatose, meaning Bond hadn’t slept in several days.

His mind thrummed with the constant, whining beeping of the monitors that forced Q to cling to life, only breathing with help from a respirator.

As time went on, it seemed more and more likely that Q’s body was being forced into life against his will. He showed no sign of anything. Once in a while, a spasm ran through him, some part of his lungs or heart or organs failing despite everybody’s efforts, medical teams rushing around him, trying to somehow pin him to life.

Q was dying. If left alone, he would already have died, several times over.

There was a substantial chance of him never waking again. Doctors spoke to him, in low, apologetic voices, suggesting that he let Q go. He was registered as Q’s next of kin, in a move of such terrifying irony it made Bond feel sick; he would be unequivocally responsible for Q’s death, the loss of the greatest Quartermaster MI6 could have ever known, the death of Bond’s greatest love.

Night time. An hour until their eighteen month anniversary. Q lay immobile, body covered in tubes, chest barely moving, machines level and calm. The decision had been made. Bond wanted to be alone for it.

It was oddly simple. Bond kissed Q’s pale forehead. His only thought circled around the absurd wish that he could see Q’s eyes one more time, that light, the constituent parts of somebody as beautiful as Q had been. The voice was recorded on a million mission logs, Bond would be able to access them again, but his eyes – they could never be captured properly. Cameras did no justice to him. The wonderful sense of being _alive_ that Q emanated; Bond could only find that with him, next to him, watching Q speak and move and _be_.

Bond couldn’t quite accept that this would be it.

There were no words, words were entirely pointless. Speaking to a man already dead; a waste of oxygen. Bond’s fingers played along Q’s arms, traced the thin skeleton, skin stretched over, so cold, so colourless. This was a shell of somebody Bond had once loved.

Some part of Bond was terrified that he would flick the switch, see the slightest twitch of a finger, that he would pre-empt Q’s return to life by a matter of seconds. He would not. The long Q stayed on a respirator, the less likely it was that he would learn to breathe on his own again. He was merely hastening the inevitable.

He didn’t want to.

Bond stared at the gunshot in Q’s torso, shattered ribs, destroyed lung. His body had crumbled from that impact point, blood loss weakening him, Q’s thin frame unable to cope with the damage.

He was so _beautiful_ , and Bond had loved him so much. This was his fault. He had killed Q, his _Q_.

The silence cracked through everything, shattering the world.


	29. The Asexual!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Q is asexual. Bond says he is fine with being in a sexless, monogamous, relationship, and Q believes him. At least, Q believes him until he finds out about Bond sleeping with with someone while he's away on a mission. Cue the angst! ((agh i'm so sorry if you're getting this again! my internet is the worst.)) - anon

The sense of betrayal was far more acute than Q had honestly expected. With that was the _realisation_ that it had been expected. A part of Q had always known this would happen, but denied it constantly out of sheer bloody optimism and hope.

In retrospect, bloody stupid.

Q wanted it to not matter; he didn’t like sex, and he had asked Bond repeatedly if it was alright. Bond, the great womaniser, the borderline sex addict, had assured Q that asexuality was not a problem. Both of them indulged in sensuality, in intimacy of entirely different variants; sex, per se, was simply not that important. It mattered far more to share in the words and touches and warmth, to share space with another person without implication or pressure to _do_ anything.

Apparently for Bond, that was not enough.

He even had the audacity to stroll into Q-branch, cool and collected as ever, and enquire lightly as to why Q hadn’t been returning his calls.

“I’m sure Heloise can explain,” Q quipped drily, feeling no satisfaction at Bond’s expression of shock. He had been caught. Bond was _never_ normally caught

“Q…”

“007, I have no interest. Your equipment, if you would, and then get out of my office.”

Bond had no good excuse, nor reasons. Heloise had been beautiful and exotic, and oozed sex through every pore, taunted him with the one thing he hadn’t indulged in for months. He had lost perspective entirely, and he had no way of adequately expressing that.

“I’m sorry,” Bond says flatly, the only thing he can possibly say. One look at Q’s expression, shattered and hurt beyond measure, is enough to make him understand that it is far from enough.

Q covers the too-raw emotion with a mask he knows too well, and Bond loses him, literally loses him in that moment, everything he knows Q to be shutting off in one intangible event.

“This always happens,” Q murmurs, to himself, to Bond, it doesn’t matter. It is his little curse; his partners claim to understand, swear to be alright with it, assure him he matters more. He somehow never does. “007, we’re done here.”

Bond leaves.

That is, perhaps, the greatest betrayal of all.

\---

Q was drunk. He knew he was drunk, was enjoying being drunk, really didn’t care what anybody thought about his being drunk.

Eve was aiding and abetting, mostly because Q was threatening mutilation of all electronics should she refuse to supply more alcohol. Q, therefore, drank some rather fine wine, and vodka, and gin, and let the world slide out of focus.

“This happens _every_ time,” he said, with only the faintest slur; his accent made it difficult to slur even when drunk, some instinctive public-school training kept the diction intact. “Is sex really _that important_? It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, if all this bollocks about ‘loving people for who they are’ can ever _actually_ exist, if you take away sex.”

“You’ve just met with some unfortunate people,” Eve said soothingly, trying to subtly extract Q’s drink and replace it with a more watered-down version.

Q sighed, closing his eyes momentarily. “I really liked him,” he said pointlessly. “I thought… I don’t really know what I thought. That he’d be different? Wouldn’t lie? It sounds stupid… I tried to compromise, and I thought it’d work… but no, bloody, _fucking_ James Bond can’t live with just that…”

Eve let Q exhaust himself, texting Bond under the table. Q was barely able to keep himself vertical by the time Bond arrived, draping over the table. Interestingly, he didn’t object when Bond scooped him up in the middle of the pub, carrying the inebriated young man out to the car and driving him home.

-

Q woke up feeling like he’d been hit with a truck, and then said truck had reversed back and tried again, just for luck.

He was in Bond’s flat. Curious. Q sat up very slowly, brain howling in protest, as the door opened.

Bond walked in with a cup of tea, glass of water, and two effervescent tablets. “Drink half the glass of water, dissolve the pills, drink it, drink your tea,” Bond told him, too-quickly, the words blurring together in a mess.

“Why’m I here?” he asked quietly, as Bond coaxed him into drinking the water, hands around it like a child with a bottle. “Bond, this is inappropriate.”

“You needed somebody who could take care of you,” Bond told him flatly. “Eve has work, I’m off today. Q, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“Fuck off,” Q replied immediately, dropping the pills into the water, hoping they would have the promised effect of knocking back the hangover. “You slept with somebody else, for no good bloody reason other than for sex. Is it _that important_ to you?”

Bond was very quiet, quite sad. “I like having a physical way to express my love,” Bond told him, without accusation or anger. “It’s important to me. I understand, though, Q, and I’m sorry. I have no excuses.”

“Correct,” Q snapped. Perhaps it was the hangover, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel that angry. There had to be a compromise, there had to be _some way_ of making this work. Q had spent his entire life worrying about sex; the irony of it was monstrous.

“I still want to be with you,” Bond told him gently, as Q snatched for his tea, the familiar burn on his fingers from the too-hot mug oddly comforting. Q’s eyes slid shut for a moment.

This was a bad idea. This was a horrendously, terribly bad idea.

“Okay,” Q murmured. “But James, you will never do anything like this again, do you understand? If I _ever_ find you’ve cheated on me again, I just…”

Bond sat on the edge of the bed, sliding his body closer, initiating contact. “Understood,” Bond said simply, coaxing a small smile from Q, the boy continuing to smile as he sipped his tea.


	30. The Dubcon fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I luv your prompts so much. Can you do one where everyone at MI6 thinks Q is a whore, but in truth he had never had sex because he wasn´t interested until he met Bond? Cue on Bond fucking Q mercilessly and finding out as the other cries out/hurts/etc. (H/C, Semi Dub/Con?) (Gives her a cookie) Thanks! - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for dubious consent, and sexual content.

“James, _James_ ,” Q whimpered beneath him. “ _God yes_ …”

Bond’s hand snaked over Q’s mouth, muffling out the sound. “Now Q,” Bond told him, voice sensual and half-growled. “You’ve been sleeping your way around MI6, hmm? Everybody knows you’re a little whore, a _gorgeous_ little whore. It’s about time you were taught your place…”

Q’s eyes were impossibly wide, but he was mercilessly hard, hips straining upwards; Bond took it as his cue. Bond moved a hand from Q’s mouth, wrenching his own tie off and quietly attaching Q’s wrists to the headboard with knots any sailor would be proud of. “James,” Q whined faintly. “James, I…”

Bond’s hand returned to his mouth, shushing him in a low growl. “You’re _mine_ , Q, do you understand me?”

 Q, with a softly muffled moan, nodded. Bond flipped him over, roughly tugging at Q’s trousers. “James…”

Bond slapped his arse, hard. “No talking. I thought you were intelligent, Q, hadn’t you got the idea?” Bond told him, snaking his body over Q’s, breathing in the younger man. Q, irritatingly, kept trying to talk; Bond bunched up his shirt, using the sleeve as a makeshift gag. “Enough,” he repeated sharply, as Q started to wriggle gorgeously.

Bond tugged off Q’s trousers easily, leaving the younger man exposed, pale skin on show as the wriggling became more heightened, arse lifted invitingly. “Honestly, Q, delicious little thing like you, how many men have you had? Dozens, I’m sure, arse in the air for them…”

Q’s hips shifted against the sheets beneath, seeking friction, his body straining with tension. Bond found the lube, liberally coating his fingers, pushing them in with little delicacy. Q gave a frantic sound, shifting slightly; Bond couldn’t help but find it surprising, how tight he was. But then, Q was very skinny; it was possible.

Bond stretched him carefully, Q making tiny noises, Bond’s other hand fastening around his cock and stroking slowly, perfect pressure, Q’s letting out a low groan of want. “God, you’re beautiful,” Bond sighed, kissing down Q’s spine, fingers still moving. “So beautiful.”

He slicked himself up, lining against Q’s arse, fingers digging into Q’s hips. They had spent days, weeks flirting; Bond had begun to understand more about his filthy little Quartermaster, the games he liked to play, how he would like to be taken, scenarios and ideas, each had made Q progressively more excited, sensual voice ridden with tremors, excitement.

It literally never occurred to Bond that Q had been lying. That Q, vulnerable and worried about seeming naïve, had _substantially_ beefed up his sexual experiences. Bond had seen, done, everything – Q didn’t want to be boring. He said what he thought needed saying.

As Bond pushed into him, Q let out a strange sob. The irony was that this was the kind of roleplay scenario Q would _love_ , under other circumstances; his body was responding on instinct, adrenaline and excitement setting him off. There was another, quite substantial part of his head screaming, however, and Bond _wasn’t noticing_.

Q fell completely, terrifyingly still.

Bond noticed, stilling, tugging the shirt from Q’s mouth. “Q, are you alright?” he asked, voice suddenly heavy with concern. “ _Q_?”

“Off,” Q managed, voice very low, very tremulous. Bond shifted, pulling out, Q wincing at the movement. He grasped for the covers, tugging them over himself, feeling oddly shaky.

“What did I do?” Bond asked, genuinely confused, erection dying back quite quickly in the face of serious concern.

Q shut his eyes for a moment. “James, I lied. About me, about my… about my experiences. _Jesus_. James, I’ve not…”

Bond felt his throat close, a rush of horrendous nausea gathering. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lied, and it was… I liked it, but I couldn’t… It got too far, I mean, _fuck_ , James…” Q whispered. Safe, sane and consensual had all been pretty much blown, over the course of one exceptionally misguided evening.

Bond had no words, no possible expressions to cover what he had just done, Q curling in the sheets protectively as Bond grappled with what the fuck had just happened. “No,” he managed, a blanket contradiction his only possible solace. Q couldn’t have. He couldn’t have just…

Q was crying, very softly, almost expressionlessly. Oh god. Oh _god_.

Bond calmly tugged the bin out from under his bedside table, and threw up.

 ---

Bond retched for a minute or so, his head spinning violently. Q was utterly still next to him, sheets tucked up under his chin, guarding himself. He cried in absolute silence, his expression frozen.

After another minute of simple breaths, trying to calm, Bond straightened. He reached out for the glass of water Q had placed on the bedside table – Q’s eyes following his movements – washing out the taste of bile.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bond murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Q… shit, I’m sorry.”

Q curled up slightly, posture betraying faint, bleak surprise at the ache that settled in his lower spine. It hurt. “I shouldn’t have lied,” he said emotionlessly, very pale. “I… admittedly, I didn’t… didn’t _imagine_ that would…”

“You should not be apologising,” Bond said through a closed throat. “I… Are you alright? I mean…”

“Sore, but fine,” Q replied quickly, before Bond could say anything further.

“Okay,” Bond murmured, deciding to believe him. “…I should go. I’m sorry, Q…”

“You don’t have to go,” Q said dispassionately, running a slightly shaking hand through his hair. “I know you didn’t mean to, and wouldn’t have if I hadn’t lied. As it happens, I do have… an interest, shall we say… and…” he sighed, taking a deep breath. “Fucking… _miscommunication_ , that’s…”

“I just essentially raped you, and you’re blaming this on misinformation?” Bond asked in a flinty, broken tone, his breath shuddering frantically as he tried to get his mind even faintly around it. “ _Jesus_ , Q…”

“Stop it,” Q told him flatly, coldly. “This isn’t born of masochism. If you’d done anything out of maliciousness, it would be very different. I lied, repeatedly, misled you as to what I knew, and what I wanted. There is no point assigning blame when we’ve both been bloody idiots.”

“I…”

“Seriously James, just stop,” Q snapped, slamming a hand ineffectually against the mattress. He gave a short, strangled growl of irritation. “Fuck’s _sake_. I wanted this so badly, I really did. _Jesus_.”

Bond was terrifyingly still, and Q just watched him. He reached out, placing a soft hand on Bond’s arm. “I did too,” Bond said, his voice terribly small. If he had known, well. There were so many things he would have done differently, would have taken such care of him.

He had acted under an honest belief that Q would enjoy it. Bond lived a life of lies, and yet hadn’t been able to see through his Quartermaster – which was both absolutely right, and dangerously wrong. Q needed to be the best liar in the world, with his job.

The problem came in lying to his own side.

“James… I don’t want you to go,” Q repeated, fingers curling around Bond’s forearm, holding him in place.

Bond either didn’t hear, or resolutely ignored him.

\---

Q was fine. A little sore, admittedly, but that wasn’t very surprising nor too problematic. That went away after a few days.

Bond was, quite unequivocally, _not_ fine. He was refusing to see Q, refusing to pick up the bloody phone unless it was mission-related; even then, he managed a few words, before hanging up before Q could say anything of importance.

A week later, and there was still no sign of Bond anywhere. He never came down to Q-branch any more, as he had for weeks and months on end, almost daily. Q-branch missed him. _Q_ missed him.

Ergo – luring under false pretences. Q contacted M, told him to get Bond down to Q-branch by whatever means necessary. M was rather used to slightly peculiar demands from the young Quartermaster; he indulged the man, contacting Bond and telling him to immediately report to Q-branch.

The moment Bond stepped into his office, Q automatically locked down the doors.

“I truly hope you did not just lock a highly-trained secret agent in a confined space, against his will,” Bond said in a low, unnervingly soft tone.

Q took a deep breath, blinked. “If you’d answered my calls, I wouldn’t need to,” he said, a little defensively. “James, we need to damn well _talk_ about this, it’s ridiculous. I haven’t had sex before. I’ve had many close encounters, tried a lot of things, _thoroughly_ ascertained my sexual leanings – but I’ve never reached a stage where I wanted to.”

“What are you attempting to achieve by telling me that?” Bond asked, voice neutral.

“Shut up, Bond,” Q snapped. “ _Fuck_. I’m trying to explain that I don’t _care_ that it went wrong. It doesn’t matter. I want… I want to try again. Properly, this time.”

Bond stared at him, eyes bleak and dark, unforgiving. “I clearly didn’t make myself clear – I will not be responsible for harming you again,” he said in a flat tone, devoid of texture.

Q rolled his eyes. “You won’t be. That’s the point I’m trying to make,” he said gently. “Please, don’t just go because you’ve panicked, that’s just insulting. I’m not a raving masochist – if I didn’t want to be with you, I wouldn’t be. I certainly wouldn’t be chasing you down.”

Bond was still motionless. Q took a few steps towards him, reaching out; Bond moved quickly, ducking out of Q’s reach, shifting closer to the door. “You are _such_ a child,” Q said irritably, reaching out to grab him.

It was blindingly fast. Before Q had a chance to _think_ , he was slammed against the wall; his head would have glanced off, had Bond not placed his own hand in the way, pillowing him from the impact. “ _Fuck_ ,” he exhaled, adrenaline spiking, pupils dilating as he stared at Bond.

“I could kill you,” Bond said, voice a near-incomprehensible growl, the bright blue sharp and lethal.

Q panted slightly, suddenly finding it difficult to get oxygen. “You won’t,” he said, with quiet confidence, breathless. “If I’d told you the truth, you wouldn’t have done anything. You want what I want – you’d never hurt me.”

“Accidents happen.”

Q laughed, Bond’s hands still keeping him pinned to the wall. “Yes, they do. People die crossing roads on daily basis. ‘Accidents’ are commonplace. What you did was not an accident. Misinformed, certainly, but not accidental. James, stop the self-flagellation, and _think_. Do you really think you could kill me?”

 _Yes_ , Bond nearly answered, on instinct. He _could_ kill anybody, if he needed to.

Not Q.

The realisation was terrifying.

Bond released Q abruptly, the younger man nearly slipping down the wall, adrenaline making his heart judder in quicktime. Q knew he had made his point, Bond breathing harshly, bridge of nose pinched between strong fingers.

“Q, you have to be honest with me,” Bond rasped, throat closed. “I won’t be doing _anything_ , unless you tell me the truth. My faults are self-explanatory, I went… I went too far…”

“Bond, I know you won’t do anything like that again,” Q soothed, smiling faintly as Bond finally looked back at him.

Q held out his arms, head cocked slightly to one side, inviting Bond. The man stared at him for a moment as though the concept was foreign, and perhaps it was; Bond was used to being the one offering comfort, not being comforted himself.

It broke Q’s heart, just a little.

There was a surge of tangible, honest relief when Bond finally conceded defeat, falling into Q’s arms, the pair holding one another in the middle of Q’s office, making do however they could.

\---

Q rotated his hands slightly in the cuffs. Easy to slip, his own design, and wouldn’t cut him up if he struggled.

Bond had conceded to them, and them alone. His initial argument had rotated around ‘ _experimentation can wait_ ’, until they’d negotiated through a compromise that wound up with Q in easily slipped cuffs, and Bond slowly working his way across Q’s body with a teasing reverence.

The mere fact of having his hands out of the equation was intoxicating. He depended on his hands; their loss was the fastest way to make Q feel vulnerable, and with Bond, he trusted enough to let it happen. In spite of everything, Q trusted Bond absolutely.

He was perfection. He knew where to touch and stroke, where to luck, the exact amount of pressure as he pulled Q’s cock into his mouth; Q gave a startled yelp, Bond’s tongue flicking over his slit before swallowing him further. Speechless, Q watched helpless as Bond moved over him, tilting him terrifyingly close to orgasm before pulling back, leaving him keening for more.

“Good boy,” Bond purred. Q had felt his fingers explore; once Q’s attention had moved away from the almost-orgasm, Bond gently slid a finger in.

Bond treated it like the most important thing in the world, and Q found all coherency melting as his body strained towards orgasm again, still falling short, thoughts turning foggy; he instinctively reached down himself, movement arrested, the realisation making satisfied pleasure abruptly spike.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, as a third of Bond’s fingers pressed inside, Bond’s thumb just managed a soft stroke from the base of his hard cock, along his perineum. Q keened as Bond set up a slow rhythm, fucking Q tantalisingly with just fingers.

Bond smiled slightly as his Quartermaster visibly lost all pretence at control. “More?” he asked softly, crooking his fingers against Q’s prostate, the man arching for more.

“ _Please_ ,” Q gasped; he let out an indignant whimper as Bond pulled his fingers out, slicking himself up. He pulled Q’s legs over his shoulders, making sure the man was ready before deftly releasing his hands from the cuffs.

Q glanced at him, confused; Bond pulled him so he was sitting up, bundled in Bond’s lap, eyes absurdly wide.

Bond kissed him, taking him to pieces, sinking into his lover’s body. It was nothing like the last time; Q’s body fell in towards him, pleading tonelessly as Bond set up a rhythm, their bodies pressed together, forgetting everything about their disastrous initial attempt, forgetting everything for a brief, beautiful moment.


	31. The Emotional Abuse fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I seriously need some angst. I think Q should hurt bond emotionally, instead of Q being the sad one. Where Q more or less belittles him as he is only a blunt weapon for MI6. Q more or less lets his brothers (sherlock and such) make James feel not really smart. more or less making him feel like a thug with a gun. Making James wonder why be with him at all then. sorry bad week happening I need angst. serious angst. - anon

Their arguments were always virulent and cruel, waging war on Bond’s deepest insecurities. It was childish, perhaps, but honest; Q made odd sideways comments on a regular basis, noting Bond’s comparative stupidity, Bond’s tendency to ignore the cerebral in favour of ‘blowing things to bits’.

Most of it was made as a joke. There came a point when the jokes stopped being funny.

Bond was far from stupid. He was not at Q’s level by a long margin, but he was certainly not stupid. He had a degree in Eastern languages, understood politics, international relationships, had the ability to think on his feet and get out of most compromising situations.

Q seemed to forget that, quite frequently – and Sherlock, his brother, was far worse.

Sherlock Holmes enjoyed destroying other human beings via callous, cruel observation. He noted that Bond was outstripped by Q intellectually. Bond had a tendency to act without thought. Was trigger-happy, probably at the cost of common sense,

Bond felt vaguely homicidal towards Q’s sibling within a handful of minutes, as he danced on every one of Bond’s minimal insecurities. Bond was tired, very tired, of being unintelligent. Of being insufficient. Of being, ultimately, inadequate.

“Do you want to be with me, or not?” Bond snapped, after another disastrous meeting with Sherlock.

Q looked almost surprised. He couldn’t quite find a source for Bond’s disproportionate anger, his passionate outcry. “What are you taking objection to?” he asked calmly, head tilted in polite curiosity.

“Being the butt of every single bloody joke,” Bond hissed. “Q, I’m not genius-level, but I’m not stupid. Do you really think that of me?”

Q watched him, appraising. “You’re hardly an intellectual,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “James, it isn’t… don’t get upset, it’s just one of those things. My family outstrip you intellectually, yes. You’ve done little to indicate that you have any real intelligence…”

“Sod this,” Bond muttered, stalking away from Q. Q didn’t call after him, which was oddly telling. Bond didn’t need this. He didn’t need to be brought down on a daily basis by somebody he cared about, who clearly didn’t think very much of him. He didn’t need any of this, so he was removing himself from the situation, at least for now.

Jesus, he was better than this. They had to attack on the front he was least confident; so many other had mocked his intelligence, arguing that his directives came from the intelligent factions. He was nothing. Merely ammunition.

He had hoped Q would be different. It broke his heart, just a fraction, that he wasn’t.

\---

Mycroft Holmes’s disappearance fell under both Sherlock and Q’s remit; Q, because Mycroft was a high-ranking government official, and Sherlock’s, because there was no way in hell he was going to be kept away.

Bond was the ammunition, naturally. He was fired out at their beck and call, returning back on demand, expected to do as told with no deviations.

Sherlock and Q were satisfied with the case, working beautifully with one another; the captors had released footage, with demands, rather basic. Both agreed that the captors were following a standard patterning, and needed to be allowed time to settle, decide if they wished to escalate matters. It also allowed Q more time to find out who they were, if they were part of a wider schematic.

Thus, a waiting game. They knew where Mycroft was, but were not prepared to take action yet.

Bond, quite fervently, disagreed. The captors’ behaviour was not especially logical, screamingly erratic; teasers of a battered Mycroft Holmes had appeared, but with a slight shake on the camera that Bond couldn’t quite forget. It was only marginal, but there was something wrong.

The demands were out of sync with the violence. Sherlock and Q had written it off. Bond knew people like this; they had lost sight of what they wanted, had gotten in too deep. Bond’s personal theory was that a large organisation had employed a small unit, an easily dispensable one, to abduct Mycroft Holmes. They had never been expected to succeed, and were now panicking.

It meant, in practise, that they were more likely to escalate violence out of proportion, even kill their captive, out of sheer panic. If Mycroft Holmes was to survive, he needed extraction as quickly as humanly possible.

Nobody listened to Bond. Sherlock outright snorted, and Q raised an eloquent eyebrow, his smile patronising.

Bond, therefore, went off under his own steam. They had a location; it was a simple case, now, of removing the captors. It was appallingly easy; as suspected, the captors were not tremendously experienced, and were rather stressed as to what to do next.

Bond managed to take two of them alive, remove another one. They were barely in their twenties.

“I have Mycroft Holmes, and two of the three men responsible for his abduction, in my custody. The third is dead,” Bond told Q dispassionately, over the headset. He hadn’t spoken to Q since their argument, since realising how little Q thought of him; the twinge of satisfaction at having proven the other two Holmes brothers wrong was tempered, knowing that at the end of it, he still didn’t want to be around Q.

The Holmes brothers kept themselves to themselves. Their intelligence was captured in their family, and nobody else could hope to compete; Bond knew of John Watson, who had been sidelined by Sherlock since meeting the man. It was doomed to never work.

“Bond…”

Bond hung up, heart clenching violently.

Apologies are not enough, from time to time.

\---

“James…”

“I really don’t want to talk,” Bond said flatly, mercilessly. Q had been trying to get through to him for a while, and Q was damn persistent; he didn’t merely accept Bond’s phone being off. He rerouted through to public phones, laptops, computers, televisions. Anything electronic in the immediate vicinity was infected by Q in some way or another.

Bond ignored most of it, until _somehow_ , Q made his phone ring again. “James, I’ve been a total bastard,” Q said, as quickly as he could possibly manage, before Bond hung up on him. “I know I have, and I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Bond replied flatly. “Your point?”

“You just saved my brother’s life,” Q said quietly, clearly. Bond stopped; there was a tone in his voice that was a distinct snap from the usual, something with greater texture than Bond was used to hearing.

Bond waited a moment, and Q didn’t speak. “… I’m aware,” Bond said slowly. “And?”

“Jesus, you’re not making this easy for me, are you?” Q asked rhetorically, with a touch of desperation in his tone. “ _Fine_. Look. I’m an idiot, and I underestimated you.”

“And?” Bond prompted, no mercy in his tone.

Q sighed, cursed slightly under his breath. He was notoriously useless at apologies. “I… James, you _know_ …”

Bond’s tone was a sharp, unkind snap. “You can bloody well tell me.” He had no interest in making matters simpler for Q, not after everything that had happened.

“I was cruel. I underestimated you. I was… fuck, I’m sorry,” Q said, his tone almost breaking. “I don’t want to lose you. I’m sorry, fuck, _fuck_ , I’m sorry. Just… I’ll have words with Sherlock, too. James, I’ve been an idiot, and I’m throwing myself on your mercy.”

Bond laughed. Not genuine, but in no sense the cynically cold thing Q had been expecting. “What mercy?” he asked rhetorically, feeling himself buckle slightly. Q was a _bastard_ , but this was not their first row. It was unlikely to be their last. And this was certainly the first time Q had broken down enough actually _apologise_.

“Let me take you to dinner,” Q said, a flat-out negotiation. “I know you’re angry, I really do.”

“Why now?”

“I nearly lost my big brother because I didn’t listen to you,” Q said quietly. “It opens the eyes, shall we say. Please, James. I’ll make it up to you.”

Bond sighed, leaning against the brick wall; Q had managed to call as he was heading home, Bond now tucked in a side street. “You will not do this again,” he said simply, not needing to detail the consequences if Q did. Bond sighed. God, Q was bad for him. “Dinner?” he asked, slightly weary.

“My place, I’ll cook?” Q suggested, with peculiar tentativeness.

Bond pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed again. This was probably a stupid idea. “I’ll see you at eight,” he said quietly, and hung up.


	32. The Poor!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt : 00Q au. They are dating, but don’t live together. Q is very poor..i mean : really poor. James tries to help him and look after him… hurt/comfort/angst. - anon

“It’s alright, I’ll head home,” Q said with a light smile; Bond was hardly surprised. Q never liked going home with Bond. They had been together for several months, and Bond had yet to see where in the hell Q lived.

Bond was a spy for a reason. He’d met Q in a coffee shop, the kid drinking coffee while hijacking the wifi, and things had developed from there. Q – his dilapidated Nokia just about able to save Bond’s phone number – met him for dinner a few days later.

It was patently obvious that the only item of value Q possessed was his laptop. Everything else he owned was falling to pieces; his cardigan had been well-mended, but was threadbare in places, clothing carefully chosen and designed. Bond insisted on buying, when they went out, but Q’s pride made it difficult; on their second date, Q had refused to buckle, paying for the pair of them despite Bond’s insistence.

He had smiled. He knew that Bond knew, he just didn’t want to discuss it. He knew what he was doing.Weeks translated to months, to Bond finally probing more into who in the hell Q was, how a kid like him ended up like this.

“I’m a hacker,” Q said with a shrug. “I could probably hack various bank accounts if I wanted, but I’m simply not that immoral. I need a job, but both my parents are… well. I work when I can, but there needs to be somebody who can look after my mother, and my father is in no place to do so.”

“Your speech is at odds with your upbringing,” Bond commented lightly. Q smiled oddly.

“Playing the part can open doors,” he said quietly. “People believe what you want them to believe. My intelligence, this tone; it lends credibility where none exists, shall we say.”

Bond’s smile was not quite honest. Q would make an extraordinary agent, if he wished; apparently, he could live a life of secrets, of semi-truths.

MI6 could work with somebody like that.

“If there was a way of ensuring care for your family,” Bond asked one evening, treading carefully. “ _If_. Would you be interested in a job? Research and development sector in MI6; they would find you invaluable, if you’re good at hacking.”

“The best,” Q murmured ineffectually; he glanced up, eyes dark. “James, would you ask? If there was a way? I know it’s ridiculous to ask…”

Bond smirked. “It would be my pleasure,” he said gently. “They take on trainees too, so if the tech is out of your range of experience, you can have full training. I’ll speak to my senior officers. If you’re interested, of course.”

Q pounced on him, kissing him hard enough to leave them both breathless. “ _Thank you_ ,” he managed. “Thank you, so much.”

\---

Q was dressed in borrowed clothes; Bond had various pieces Q could tailor for himself, the younger man highly adept with a needle and thread. Bond wasn’t honestly sure he understood _how_ Q had managed to take a tailored jacket and reduce it by approximately four inches all round, but he had, and looked rather good.

He bit his lip uncomfortably, watching Bond through wide eyes. “What if…?

“Stop it,” Bond said simply. “You’re going to be fine. They don’t care much about what you look like, so long as you’re good at your job.”

“A touch of professionalism wouldn’t go amiss, however,” Q pointed out lightly, straightening the sleeves. He whistled out a long sigh. “Oh _god_ , James.”

Bond curled his young lover into his arms, sheltering him gently from his worries, trying to comfort as best he could. “You’ll be fine,” Bond soothed. “This is what you’re good at. Go prove it.”

-

Bond needed to be in MI6 for the day regardless; he waited for Q, who would be in interviews and assessments for the day. His mother had been taken in by MI6 Medical teams for the day; Bond knew, from that alone, that MI6 were highly interested already. Usually, they wouldn’t bother making the effort.

It didn’t change the thrill of pure, unadulterated joy when Q walked out of M’s office, speaking to M in a low, collected tone. Bond watched the handshake, not prepared to read too much into the situation before he had definite evidence.

As soon as M had gone, Q barrelled into his arms, practically bowling him over. “ _I got it_ ,” Q gasped at him, Bond’s arms closing protectively around him. “They’re hiring me, and they’re looking after mum. _Jesus_. Thank you, _fuck_ , thank you…”

“Nothing to thank me for. MI6 don’t hire idiots; you got this off your own bat,” Bond pointed out. He found himself curiously unwilling to detach the young man from his front, despite his colleagues shooting him glances; to be quite honest, Bond felt very little other than sheer pride.

Q was beautiful, and so, unbelievably clever.

“Well done, Q,” Bond murmured, twisting his head so he could press a kiss against the younger man’s temple. “Now. Let me take you out for dinner? I’ve wanted to take you somewhere posh for _ages…_ ”

Q wound hands around Bond’s head, kissing him ferociously, laughing with adrenaline and relief and sheer, stupid _joy_.


	33. The Neighbour fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> saw a picture now I really want a AU: James is 007 and he really likes his new young neighbor … - anon

The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty five. To be quite honest, even that was being generous; he had a dress sense that was fashionable and would not suit most people, slightly curly hair that framed his delicate-boned face perfectly.

He smiled slightly shyly; they ended up meeting while the kid was taking his bins out first thing in the morning, Bond just traipsing home after a ridiculously long night. “You must be in 2A,” the boy said in a carefully accented voice. “I’m Q, I live in 2B.”

Bond’s mouth twitched in a smile. The boy threw the bags haphazardly into the bin, cursing slightly as one nearly fell out again, breathing in relief when it stayed, despite gravity. He wiped his hands on his front, extending a palm towards Bond.

“Bond. James Bond,” Bond replied, shaking the proffered hand. Q smiled slightly crookedly. “Q?”

“My real name’s bloody stupid, my parents hated me,” Q replied, by way of an explanation. “Q’s easier. So what do you do, James?”

The statutory reply: “I’m an international hostage negotiator,” he told Q, whose eyes widened. It was an easy enough description; most people wouldn’t buy the injuries, the money, the international travel without it being something high-end. “And you?”

“Computer technician,” Q replied, another statutory answer. He was a professional hacker, consulted by worldwide organisations, essentially invisible, and rich enough to live in a very good location in Central London. Bond knew something was wrong with that answer, but didn’t press the point.

Q was looking at his shoulder, where Bond could still feel the bullet itch. “Dangerous job,” he mused aloud, as though he already knew.

Ridiculous, Bond thought, as the kid smiled. “A little,” Bond replied, no hint of an edge to his tone, the pair walking up towards the flats. “Absurd hours, too.”

“Yes, if you’re just getting back,” Q laughed. “I’d invite you in for tea, but I expect you’ll want to get some sleep?” Bond nodded, finding himself oddly reluctant. “No problem. You can always come round later, if you want, I’ll be in.”

The implication was not obvious, but nevertheless present. Bond looked over Q one more time, before nodding. “Mid-afternoon?”

Q shrugged. “Whenever. Like I say, I’m there all day; I work from home. I could probably procure some alcohol, make a night of it. I’d invite round 2C, but she’s not around much, and also a bit…” Q made a ‘crazy’ sign with a finger, and smirked. “Only joking, but…”

“I’ll see you later,” Bond interrupted, as Q blushed very faintly, in a way that was absolutely gorgeous. Bond reached for his key, as Q opened the door to his apartment, half-slipping inside. “Take care, Q.”

“See you later,” Q nodded, and shut the door.

Bond moved into his own apartment, feeling oddly dizzy. Q was a wonderful little thing, beautiful and delicious and young and tempting.

Oh, but Bond was in trouble.

\---

Bond woke up in the early afternoon. His shoulder ached a little, but was easily knocked back with a hefty dose of painkillers, and the promise of time spent with the delicious creature in 2B.

He waited until about six. If he was very fortunate, the drinks could then span into dinner, into an evening. At the same time, it was early enough for Bond to make excuses if required, if it turned out to be a bad idea.

Thus at six, Bond tapped on the door with his knuckles, waiting with a bottle of wine he’d exhumed from one of the cabinets in his kitchen. He waited a moment; he couldn’t even hear stirring from inside the flat, wondering if Q had gone out unexpected.

He was just turning away when the door opened. “Sorry, had some problems with the hob,” he said breathlessly, brushing hair out of his face. He noted that Bond was on the verge of walking away: “Ah. Are you…?”

“Thought you might be out,” Bond shrugged, holding out the wine; Q accepted it with another wonky smile, and Bond felt the attraction near knock him over. He was _beautiful_.

His laugh, too. A delicate thing, like glass tinkling.

Good god, Bond was waxing lyrical. How pathetic.

“Nope,” Q denied, smile bright and infectious. “Here all day, every day. Come in.”

Bond stepped over the threshold past Q, the younger man pushing the door shut behind them. The flat was roughly similar to his own, only with about forty times the amount of technology, spilling over and out through every cupboard. The entire place hummed, underpinned with the insistent whipping of a fan to regulate afore-mentioned tonnes of tech. “What did you say you do?” Bond asked, with a slightly mocking smile.

“Computer technician,” Q repeated, very close to honestly. Bond looked around, back to Q, his expression amply illustrating how much he believed that.

Q glanced pointedly at the injured shoulder, the slight weight distribution to the right where Bond still habitually held himself, after the injury to his hip a few months back. “I won’t ask if you don’t,” Q smirked, the glint in his eyes utterly wicked. Alright then. They both knew the other was lying. An interesting start.

Bond followed the young man into the kitchen; Q dug out glasses and a corkscrew, handing them all to Bond, with the wine, while he poked at something in a saucepan. “What’re you cooking?”

“I think a more apt question is what am I _attempting_ to cook,” Q said, sighing slightly. “It’s not coming off quite as well as I’d intended. Ah well. If the worst comes to the worst, I have ready-made curry in the freezer.”

Bond laughed, pouring the wine into two glasses and passing one over. “A toast?”

“To new neighbours?” Q suggested, with a smile that was indicative of more than simple neighbourliness. Bond glanced him up and down, smiled, raised his glass with a faint nod.

Q’s smile was delicious, as he took a sip of the wine.

\---

After a little while, Q conceded defeat on the cooking front. With a shrug that told Bond of years of failed cooking – and that he’d tried to make effort, knowing Bond was coming – he found the curries in the freezer, and popped them in the oven.

“So you’re a computer whiz, but cooking escapes you?” Bond asked with a touch of sarcasm, smirking at Q’s raised eyebrow.

He poured Bond another glass of wine, draining his own and refilling it as he corrected: “I’m a computer _genius_ , I’ll have you know.”

“And startlingly modest,” Bond quipped, still wearing his light smirk. He took a sip from the new bottle of wine, wondering how many secrets he could get out of the younger man, and what it would take.

They moved into Q’s living room, settling on the sofa; Bond sat like a normal human being, while Q bundled his limbs together in an implausible knot, elegant fingers cradling the underside of his glass as he watched Bond with quiet curiosity.

Bond was never reticent about his identity. If the kid knew computers, chances were he could find his way around to James Bond, MI6 agent. He wasn’t even difficult to find, if you had half a brain; he had been on enough missions to send ripples through criminal underworlds, breaking the surface of normal life.

“I work for the secret service,” Bond said flatly, aware of the potential repercussions of revealing such information. He threw the information out as a simple fact, to be taken and used at will. His hand moved, able to withdraw his gun at a moment’s notice, should it be required.

“I’m a professional freelancer hacker and programmer,” Q replied, tit for tat, his voice holding the same neutrality as Bond’s. “Not everything I do is strictly legal, but I do not threaten the wellbeing of Great Britain.”

“Duly noted. Almost nothing I do is ‘strictly’ anything, and legal long since ceased to mean much, as this conversation will indicate,” Bond explained in simple terms, the young man still staring at him with those entrancing, grey-green eyes.

Q smiled, placed his glass on the table without uncurling from his position on the sofa. It was almost impressive to witness. “Lovely. Now all of that’s out the way: I was debating naan bread, but I have no idea how long it’s been in the freezer, and therefore can’t really vouch for the quality. Or I have rice, which should be within my capabilities to cook.”

Bond blinked at the abrupt change of subject, raising an eyebrow slightly. “I don’t mind either way.”

“Stellar decision making,” Q mocked, rolling his eyes, shooting Bond an intensely sharp, gorgeously taunting half-smile. “I’ll do both. If the naans are inedible after n number of months in the freezer, it won’t be an issue.”

The naans were edible. Q was left with a superfluity of rice, which he had no idea what to do with. “Don’t bin it,” Bond chastised, as Q threatened to do exactly that.

The boy looked faintly alarmed, proffering the sieve at Bond as though he would do some form of arcane magic on it. Bond rolled his eyes, a little patronising, accepting the sieve and pouring the rice in a bowl, clingfilming the top: “You can make a ridiculous amount of dishes with leftover rice. If you like, I could come over, teach you how.”

Not even slightly reticent. Thankfully, Q wasn’t the type for overly complex rhetoric either. “As mentioned; here all day, every day. Drop in, if you have the time, or inclination.”

Bond leaned forward, fingers brushing over Q’s arm temptingly. Q’s eyes were wide, so beautiful, so _close_ …

Q stepped back deftly, expression still playfully mocking. “On the first date?” he said, eyebrow raising into a delicate arch. “I’m almost disappointed. Try harder, James.”

Quite honestly, Bond could have been blown over with a feather. That _definitely_ constituted a first. The boy had been flirting outright for the whole evening, and stopped things _there_ , just when Bond was about to get what he wanted.

And there was the crux, really. Q would only be interesting while he continued to challenge, to intrigue.

Bond had met so few people who knew how to play him. Q, it would seem, was one such creature. “Until next time, Q,” he said smoothly, raising a hand to his mouth, kissing the knuckles softly without letting their eye contact break, reading the want, the adrenaline, the interest.

“Indeed,” Q said simply, the memory of his eyes boring holes in Bond’s brain, until he returned, the next afternoon, to show Q what to do with leftover rice.


	34. The Inception fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00Q/Inception crossover: Bond cheats on Q, and Q tries to get his love/memories of Bond extracted by the Inception team – chibura

“Extraction,” Q said flatly. “I want you extract my emotional engagement with James Bond, my now ex-partner.”

It was not the first time the team had been approached with requests along those lines. Angry boyfriends, girlfriends, seeking an escape, seeking freedom; from the pain of a relationship, of a single person who had entered their thoughts and made a home there and now needed removal.

Arthur was something of a specialist in such areas. He knew how to pull a person from a life, had done so before; enter deep enough, destroy the person required at a deep level, and the presence of a person ceased to exist as a constant thought. No matter how frequently they appeared, the memory of them would not – could not – remain in the mind. The memories splintered, collapsed.

They named a fee. Ariadne still worked as their Architect; she, and one other, would be all that were required. They needed to find Q’s projection of Bond – which would be prevalent, given his emotional engagement – and essentially, kill him.

Q agreed to their fee. He settled in a comfortable chair, Eames keeping watch over them, and prepared himself; he would be the only person under any drugs. The act of removing such an influence from the mind could be difficult, violent even; they had to keep him dreaming after Bond was removed, let his mind re-adapt to the absence while unconscious.

-

Q woke up.

The dream world was perfectly beautiful, relatively easy to navigate; some twists and turns, but Q could find them easily enough. Perhaps a little too easily, actually. The projections started tracking them far too fast.

“You need to find him,” Arthur told Q, with a touch of urgency; Q didn’t understand. He kept searching, minutes spanning into hours, the projections becoming more obvious. “ _Now_ , Q.”

“Leave me,” Q said abruptly. “He’ll find me when I’m alone. I can deal with it from there.”

“You can kill him?” Arthur asked, obviously sceptical.

Q shot him a dark look. “I will lure him out, _you_ will kill him,” he said, already looking faintly discomfited at the idea. “Just _go_ , will you, before they all start attacking.”

Arthur and Ariadne blended away like shadows, leaving Q alone, settled on a bench.

True to form, Bond arrived within a matter of slow, simple minutes. He stood a little way off, his smile sad. He beckoned gently; Q glanced around, unable to see Arthur or Ariadne, rather hoping they’d seen. Q didn’t especially want to watch this.

Q walked slowly, calmly.

He didn’t expect Bond to – in a feat of movement only he was capable of, even within the double-ohs – withdraw his gun, the gun Q had created for him, and fired several times into the distance. Arthur gave a sudden yell. The projections swarmed towards the place he had fired, and Bond darted forward to Q, grabbing him. “Don’t remove me,” he said firmly, blue sparkling. “Q, I’m sorry, about everything…”

Q let out a soft gasp, pain blossoming through his back. Behind him, Ariadne – who had fired the shot towards Bond – shrieked, realising she’d missed, submerged by projections in an instant.

-

Q woke up.

Mornings in MI6 were always hell, and this was no exception. _Monday_ , of all days, and he needed to meet Bond to hand over more equipment that he would inevitably trash.

Limbo allowed one to create their own world, their own life, from scratch. It was even possible – with the raw forms of energy contained in Limbo – to create detailed, even complex, projections.

For Q, it didn’t even require much. His subconscious threw up people he needed, and their shadows could be projected. Bond was the most tangible, the others all in various degrees; his branch existed, in its entirety, and M and Tanner and the rest.

Bond tried to flirt, tried to ask him out, and Q resiliently turned him down. The extraction process had failed entirely; he still arced to Bond without meaning to, a semi-compulsive need to be around the older man.

He was still a shadow, however. Nothing was quite tangible. But Q could spend hours, weeks, tucked up in his office with fiddly pieces of technology, guiding agents he didn’t see through places that didn’t exist in Limbo. He forgot, after a while. Limbo became his existence, the few projections his subconscious could manage becoming his company.

Bond walked in, slammed a hand on his desk. “Yes?” Q asked, unimpressed; Bond came to find him almost daily, this was no exception. Q wrote strings of code, discovered and dreamed up new coding, created everything, a heartbeat from being real.

“You have to wake up,” Bond said furiously, angry and strung-out and nothing like Q was used to seeing him like. He seemed… oddly more _real_ , in a way Q couldn’t define properly. “ _Please_ , Q. You can’t let yourself stay here. You can wake up, you _know_ you can. The drug’s worn off now. I came as soon as I could – you _have_ to get out of here. Q…”

Q hissed, spine rolling faintly. “Bond…”

“You’re dreaming, Q, you’re _still dreaming_ …”

“Bond, get _out_ ,” Q shouted at him, feeling shudders of true fury. He watched Bond stare at him, those blue eyes so beautiful, so bright. He could remember, _fuck_. Seeing Bond with infinite women, all those gorgeous creatures, the lies and the promises and the cheating, tearing Q to pieces over him.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said, with a soft, sad plea. “Q…”

“I would rather stay here _forever_ , than go back to a world with you as you were,” Q spat lividly, anger and hurt flashing in fragmented, livid half-memories, distorted by dreams, the emotions thrumming through them. Watching Bond with any number of women, dark-haired or blue-eyed or anything, Q watching on computer monitors as Bond broke his heart. “Just _go_ , Bond. This is my space, my world, and you’re not bloody welcome in it. Get out.”

Bond looked distinctly, acutely broken. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching into his jacket. Q watched, his heart stopping for a terrified, awful moment, hands reaching out, begging in a sudden flash of panic.

“Don’t…”

Bond shot him.

-

Q woke up.

“You bastard,” Q whispered hollowly, as he stared at the ceiling, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He turned over, looking towards where he simply _knew_ Bond would be; the only person who dared risk Limbo to find him, to get him out.

Q had spent over a year of his life alone, simple projections for company. Now, he looked at the tangibly real, honest figure of James Bond, and didn’t know what to think.

Bond watched him, with more sadness than Q had ever seen another person hold. Not anger, or pain, just simple devastation, written into every line of him. He didn’t speak.

Q turned back, stared back upwards, let himself cry.

\---

Q couldn’t stop shaking.

Bond was comatose. Nothing could get through to him. Physically, he was pretty much fine, by now; for some reason, known only to himself, his mind had sunk into nothingness, and he was refusing to wake.

M had come up with the idea. After the nightmare debacle of Q’s failed extraction of Bond, extraction and inception were common topics o discussion. It had been theorised that Bond – falling into a state of unconsciousness – may have wound up falling directly into Limbo. Q wasted no time in contacting Arthur again.

“I have heard of it happening,” he confirmed, Q letting out a long, shaky breath. “Somebody would need to go into his Limbo, find some way to pull him out again. It’s a risk, it’s always a risk in Limbo, you know that.”

Q did. It was possible to be lost indefinitely, caught up in the tangible aspects of infinite dreamspace. Q had done it. He had become trapped there, time only vaguely relative, his little world – and Bond had shattered it. Taken him away from a space where he was free, and comfortable, and safe. Where Bond was just an agent, another agent who didn’t lie, and didn’t hurt him, and he didn’t remember the other women, the cheating, the simple obvious truths that Bond couldn’t love him.

He was the only person who stood any chance of getting Bond out. Bond never listened to anybody – that much was an established rule – and in his own dreamspace, Q knew he would be the only person to get Bond back.

M knew that too. He ordered Q to enter Limbo, find him, return. Arthur agreed to come; a dual support, a way of ensuring the other didn’t fall into the tempting trap of Limbo.

-

Q woke up.

His Limbo had been quite a small affair. He had infinity to work with, and wound up occupying a small portion, dedicated and quiet and _his_.

Bond, on the other hand, had a whole universe. He could fly to another country and battle projections that had never existed, could live anywhere, be anywhere. Spend days in bright sunlight, before returning to a carbon copy of the UK, of London.

Of MI6. Of Q.

Q realised with a rush of painful, awful clarity. “That’s why he won’t wake up,” he murmured to Arthur, watching a projection of himself smile, laugh, body twined with Bond’s in a way that was half-familiar. “Oh _god_.”

Bond looked deliriously, wonderfully happy. Q could recall seeing flashes of that, before; Bond’s joy bleeding through the masks he constructed in MI6, the giddy naivety of it.

 _Oh, you stupid bastard_ , Q thought to himself. _Why the fuck did you have to ruin it?_

Q had never understood why. The women he’d taken exception to were not the ones Bond came across in his job; they were the others, the ones he could have avoided, and slept with regardless. More than once. Q had watched, listened, overheard conversations wherein James Bond screwed somebody else.

It didn’t matter how happy Q made him. Somehow, for some stupid, _bloody_ reason, he hadn’t been enough.

Looking at a projection of himself, of James, made him remember what it had been like, at the beginning. Before it had gone sour.

Q sighed, and stepped out. Arthur waited for him, his expression closed, eyes sympathetic.

Bond looked at him, at his projection; his face paled slightly. Q knew that feeling. When Bond had appeared in his Limbo, it was undeniable – Bond had been more tangible, more real and honest and true than any projection could be. Every facet, rather than the simple amounts a mind could digest about a person.

“I’m sorry,” Q said simply, quietly. His projection stepped back, disappeared; Bond’s eyes widened in something like panic. He didn’t want to lose his Q, his construction, the man he loved. “Bond, you’re in Limbo.”

Bond didn’t say anything. His face crumpled inwards slightly, before reforming perfectly. “Limbo,” he echoed softly. “Of course. You’re here to take me back, presumably?”

Q nodded, as Arthur emerged; Q knew he didn’t have it in himself to kill Bond. He wasn’t quite sure he could kill himself. Arthur was aware of both facts: he had chased Q into Limbo, knowing the younger man lacked the simple conviction to kill himself or his ex-lover, regardless of how important it was.

“Wait,” Bond said, holding up a hand to Arthur; Arthur hesitated, the gun still up, but not firing. Bond nodded his thanks, turning to Q. “I’ve been with you for years, in here,” he murmured, his memories realigning with every moment, the faultlines between the real world and Limbo showing through. He didn’t even know how long it had been any more; for all of it, however, he’d had Q. “Before. You wouldn’t… you refused to be with me.”

“You cheated,” Q said flatly. “I couldn’t deal with it any more, James. I wasn’t enough for you.”

Bond let out a short, strangled laugh that detailed his thoughts on _that_ statement. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, watching Q so carefully, like the man would vanish, like he was another projection. “For hurting you. For everything. I don’t… I was an idiot, Q, and I won’t be again.”

“So you’ve said,” Q replied, his voice equally quiet. Bond had been ‘sorry’ before.

Bond’s eyes closed for a moment, shutting him off. “Q. When I wake up, will you be with me?” he asked, voice brokenly quiet.

Q was silent for a long, suspended moment. He stared at Bond, watching tears gather in the corners of Bond’s eyes, behind closed eyelids. Q tried to imagine living years of a life, in a relationship that didn’t exist, that he wasn’t sure _could_ exist. He tried to imagine not only losing Bond, but discovering he’d never had him.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, not wanting to lie.

Bond’s eyes opened, fixing on Q’s. “That isn’t good enough.”

-

Q woke up.

“What the _fuck_ just happened?” M raged, as Q blinked, trying to bring himself fully back to consciousness. Next to him, Arthur was similarly raging: Q, Bond, the entire bloody situation, it was all fucked. Q didn’t remember anything, but according to Arthur, Bond had shot Q, then him. The pair had been thrown straight back into reality.

Bond lay next to them, eyes closed. Q could see the shine of tears in the corner of Bond’s eyes, behind closed eyelids.

Q curled into a tight knot, ignoring the shouting around him, arms curled up over his head as he cried.

\---

Bond couldn’t forget.

He had seen the truth of Q, the _real_ Q. Tangible in a way his projections could never be; his false Q loved him, but at least he was _loved_. The breathtaking fact of the matter was that he was going to lose Q, and he didn’t want to face it.

He lasted another few months, with his projection. Every day, it became worse, less satisfying; he remembered the wholeness of the real Q, and the shade of his projection was nothing in comparison. “You’re going, aren’t you?” Q asked calmly from behind his desk, smiling slightly.

“You’re not real,” Bond pointed out. Q’s smile grew, and he shrugged, his expression neutral and playful.

Bond leaned forward, kissed Q gently, the younger man clinging onto him for a moment before relaxing, letting go. “Be safe,” Q murmured to Bond, and didn’t watch his lover shoot himself, sending a not-Q into nonexistence.

-

Bond woke up.

Q was still curled next to him, finally asleep. M and the rest of the extraction team had disappeared, leaving a very shattered young man to sob emptily until he finally slid forward into sleep. “Q?” Bond asked, heart breaking, reaching out the younger man.

-

Q woke up.

It became evident that Bond was not himself. He had lost control, somewhere in his move to and from Limbo; a few hours translated to aeons in dreamspace, and clearly, Bond had become overly dependent. He’d forgotten everything, everybody, his entire world: barring Q.

Bond refused to leave his side. He was in constant contact, a desperate re-affirming that the younger man was still there, hadn’t been lost to Limbo or dreams or imagination. Q knew who he was, and wasn’t going to be forgotten.

Q told him to use the totem, come to some realisation that _yes_ , this was reality. Q wasn’t going to vanish, or be forgotten. This was reality.

M wanted the extraction team to move into Bond’s mind, and see if they could re-stabilise his erratic state. Bond was still insistently going on missions, but refused to be out of contact, constantly tapped into Q-branch and – most importantly – Q.

“Nobody else moves into his head,” Q said flatly, lividly. “He heals on his own. He’s still working well, we’re merely quibbling his connection to me – and I’m fine. I’m happy to let things lie.”

“Isn’t that leading him on?” M asked softly, dangerously.

Q just stared at him, expression merciless. “It’s no worse than playing further with his already-damaged perceptions of reality,” he murmured, voice low, watching Arthur and Eames carefully. “You leave him alone, you hear me?”

They agreed, and Q left.

-

Bond woke up.

Q spent days talking through missions, memories, aspects of Bond’s file. Bond sat placidly, not a visible flicker of recognition, his expression crumpling slightly as he looked at Q, and had no idea why the man was still there.

Bond was still watching when Q looked up, their eyes meeting. Q reached out a hand, settling gently on Bond’s cheek. “I know you remember,” he said simply, clearly, despite the files in his hand. His tone didn’t change. “I know why you’re doing it, but you don’t lie to me, James. Not to me.”

Q walked out of the room, leaving Bond behind, mute.

-

Q woke up.

Bond was already awake, watching him carefully from a chair at the opposite side of the bedroom. They didn’t share the bed, but Q hadn’t had the heart to make Bond move out of their flat, or indeed move out himself. After Bond’s time in Limbo, he wouldn’t have dealt with being that far away from Q.

“You’re watching me,” Q stated, expression neutral. Bond didn’t move. “Oh, _James_.  You can’t… you can’t keep doing this.”

“We both know I remember,” Bond told him simply. “Q, I spent… I have years of a life, with you. I remember that as much as I remember this, and I know which I preferred.”

Q’s voice was acerbic as he replied: “Like you, forcing me out of my Limbo. I was _happy_ there. I know… I know it had to end, but…”

“Minds fracture, if given that much of their own space, entirely theirs, without constraints,” Bond said softly. “You were my world. My entire unconscious mind dedicated itself to a universe wherein I could keep you, where you forgave me for my idiocy. Is that not even faintly indicative of my feelings towards you?”

Neither mentioned the obvious: Q’s Limbo had intentionally involved nothing of Bond.

“I loved you enough to try and remove you from my mind,” Q pointed out, almost smiling, the expression curiously shattered. “I couldn’t forget you, and you, you _bastard_ , wouldn’t let yourself be forgotten. Did Arthur explain that? That you fought back, defeated he and Ariadne to stay?”

Bond looked utterly shocked. Evidently, nobody had filled him in on that pertinent little point. “So… it didn’t hold?” he asked, voice hollow. “I thought it had worked, that was why… why you didn’t want to be with me, any more. That the extraction had worked.”

Q’s smile was horribly sad. “No. I love you as much as I did when all of this ridiculousness started. I just don’t _want_ to.”

Bond didn’t hesitate. He shifted to Q, and kissed the younger man.

Q didn’t even try to argue. He kissed Bond back like the agent was his oxygen, tears staining his cheeks, merging with Bond’s. “Please, Q. Forgive me. _Please_.”

“I’ll try,” Q promised, almost inaudibly, letting Bond collapse onto him, the pair curling together on Q’s bed for a moment, at least for that moment – real, tangible entities. No projections, no idealism.

In the end, reality had to win out. The dreams were beautiful, wonderful things – but they were only dreams, could only ever _be_ dreams.

Bond kissed the top of Q’s head gently, and Q didn’t try to move away.

It was a start.


	35. The Dystopia fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you write a dystopian au where bond works for the secret police and Q is one of the rebells? - anon

The Government were everything. They saw everything, heard everything, understood everything. An arching power under an intangible figurehead, the Prime Minister; a throwback to days when those words meant something more, anything more than autocratic regime governed by those with the most powerful firearms.

The rebellion seeped out, inexorably. Those who wanted to seize back power in the travesty of Great Britain joined together, a collection of brilliant and angry and powerful minds, ready to fight for all they could.

Q had no name. He had no age, or face. He was a million different people, under one title, doing one job in a million different places.

This Q was a young, dark-haired man who had joined the revolution when he was fifteen. One of the brighter hopes of the revolution, an expert technician, and the only person in history who had managed a Government systems hack.

The Police wanted him. Another subversion; law enforcers in a terrifyingly extreme sense, ruthless, lethal. They were trained to absurd combat standards, could kill in a series of very exciting ways, and ‘interrogate’ in a sparkling variety more.

Q knew they were coming. Their building – a safe house in London – had been detected. Q was, however, in the middle of masterminding an intelligence leak from within the Government, hoping to break through the radio silence of cover-ups and lies, get the information out to the public.

He succeeded, by a matter of mere seconds.

“ _Shit_ ,” he gasped, as the door slammed open. Q had slightly underestimated how long they would take, thought he had another minute; he grappled for his gun. Not to try and fight, that would be absurd.

He intended to die, rather than be interrogated. He knew he wouldn’t survive an interrogation.

Before Q could get the gun even close to his head, he was tackled by a Policeman; Q gave a startled cry as he was nearly knocked over, wrist cracked violently to one side as the gun was wrenched from his grip. Blinding pain shot from the wrist; closed fracture, most likely. Fuck. That would end his computer career, for a few weeks at least.

He couldn’t help but laugh with a faint note of hysteria. He was fucked anyway. The Police would certainly render him unable to work. Probably in the space of minutes, given the state of his wrist.

Q gave a small cry as he was pulled up by the hair, slammed into the wall. His wrist screamed pain, threw him off-track “Your name?” a low, smooth voice asked him. Q couldn’t answer for a moment, rendered utterly breathless. Q’s head was smacked into the wall, ricocheting off with an inadvertent keen of pain. “ _Your name_.”

“Q,” Q replied in an almost-steady voice, head spinning. He was abruptly released, sliding slightly against the wall, material rasping off it.

The Policeman watched him, eyes dark. Q noticed – with a surge of understandable terror, and respect – that his badge read _007_. The seventh highest-ranked of the Policemen. Clearly, they’d taken Q’s apprehension rather seriously.

The man noticed Q’s eyes dart to his badge, and smiled mirthlessly. “James Bond,” he said, with a slight dip of his blonde hair, blue eyes terrifyingly sharp. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of one another.”

Q nodded, eyes wide, and didn’t feel when James Bond knocked him out.

\---

Q’s mind was sliding down a plughole, and he knew it.

Policeman 007 – or James Bond, as he liked to be called – was ruthlessly thorough. Q was broken or damaged in several pertinent places, could feel his perception gradually slipping as Bond utilised every effective technique possible.

By the time The Room was mentioned, Q was inches from snapping regardless. They wanted information on the rebel movements, hierarchy, operations. They wanted him to work for them. They wanted a lot of things, and the only thing Q was really hanging on to was that he wasn’t supposed to want to do anything they wanted him to do.

He was losing track of why, but that was really beside the point.

Q knew what they would do in The Room. Based on an old novel; a place that held all fears, the most terrifying thing for one, single person.

All Rebels were trained to place their energies into one distinct fear, and were trained to resist letting the fear swallow him. Q had been on flight simulators since he joined the Revolution, once they realised he would inevitably be captured one day, forced to face his fear, the final frontier before crumbling.

Thus it was with great confusion that he was pushed into a room, with no resemblance to any form of flight or flying object.

 _Now_ he was scared.

Bond stood in the corner of the room, hands in his pockets, watching him as the door slammed close. “What’s going on?” Q asked, despite him, voice shuddering faintly as he looked at the Policeman, ribs and wrist and arm and shin burning with pain.

“I am offering you a way out,” the Policeman told him in a sleek, velvety tone. “I apologise for having to meet here, but there is nowhere else we could speak uninterrupted. I can get you out of here.”

“Why?” Q asked, immediately suspicious, taking a half-step back so he could feel the door behind him. The promise of an exit, if nothing else.

Bond took a step forward, making Q flinch. Hands up in a universal sign of surrender, he continued to walk forward. “You’ll notice your injuries are superficial,” he said slowly. “I have no interest in harming you. My job asks for it, but…”

“I don’t understand,” Q said flatly, letting out a soft hiss as Bond came closer. “Just… explain, please. Please.”

Bond nodded, accepting Q’s wariness, letting him calm. “I’m working for the Revolution,” he said, eyes darting to the door. “An undercover agent. I infiltrated the Police. I’m now at a high enough level that I have some autonomy, insofar as the Government allows. You are a truly unique talent, in what you’re doing. I can get you out.”

Q didn’t believe him, not yet. His head throbbing with pain, tired of hurting, tired of being brave; he did not believe Bond. But – for the first time – he dared to _hope_.

-

Fear is transient.

Trust is infinitely more enduring.

Bond left The Room, his smile slight, nodding to his inferiors and superiors alike with an easy arrogance, born of comfort, familiarity, a life with a set course and known outcome.

All power to the Government.


	36. The Werewolf fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00Q with werewolf!Bond: When Q was little he was given a marking bite by a werewolf while he was playing outside, signaling that the wolf would return for his mate when he reached of-age. His parents were terrified and kept him indoors and tried many concealing methods in a vain hope to hide him. They even spirit him off to London hoping to throw off the scent but they underestimate James’ desire to do anything to get his stolen mate back and properly claim him. - anon

Q was seven when the werewolf came.

He hadn’t been afraid. The creature padded towards him, prepared to tear him to pieces, potentially. Werewolves did not discriminate between children or adults; everybody was prey.

Q knew, instinctively, that this was not to be his death. The werewolf – who should have inspired sheer terror – instead inspired simple curiosity. His eyes were very, very blue. Q, at his age, simply found them very pretty.

The bite stung very slightly, but Q smiled despite himself, petting the werewolf on his nose with a soft giggle. He was too young to be taken as a bondmate, but was now marked; werewolves would not touch him, and one day, his scent would develop properly – the werewolf would come back for him.

Q’s parents were delirious with terror. The idea of their child being a werewolf’s bondmate – a partner in every sense of the word, linked inextricably to the least known and most feared beings in society – it was unacceptable.

Scrubbings and surgery and more cologne than Q had ever seen in his life was thrown at him, trying to eliminate his scent. Nothing worked; the marking still showed through, a visible bite in his lower arm that had never actively hurt in all of Q’s life, showing the world what he would be.

Q was forced to move to London, to his great distress; his parents believed his scent would be diluted, while surrounded by so many others. The werewolf would never be able to find him, or so the theory went.

Life moved on, and Q knew his scent would be near fully developed. He began looking over his shoulder, his mind throwing up memories of crystalline blue eyes, set in the dusky light fur of an inhuman creature, gigantic, supposedly terrifying.

Bond knew from the moment the young boy sat next to him; the scent was overwhelming, his voice coming in a low growl as he breathed it in. The scent that had prevented him killing the boy he found in his way, instead marking him, making him wait over a decade before he could finally take his bondmate.

“Q?”

“007,” Q smiled, finally making full eye contact.

That blue. That singular, extraordinary blue.

Bond didn’t let go of his hand, and Q stopped breathing, the mark on his arm pulsing slightly, in tandem with the hot heartbeat he could feel in Bond’s wrist. “I believe we have more to discuss,” Q murmured, robbed of all oxygen.

The wolf lived in Bond’s smile, the flash of teeth. “Yes,” he murmured, taking a deliberately large inhale, his head spinning with the delectable scent he’d waited so long to have. “Come with me.”

Q, without argument, obeyed. The werewolf had found him. He was finally _home_.

\---

Q kept his hand linked with the werewolf’s as they walked out of the gallery; the man didn’t seem to want to let him go, grip immensely tight as they strode out. “James Bond, I presume?” Q asked with a touch of sarcasm; he hadn’t technically introduced himself, yet.

The man tugged him with a little more fervour, darting into the depths of Charing Cross underground; the far passages were always pretty much deserted, barring some questionable-looking shops.

Bond pushed him against the wall, pulling up his sleeve to look at the indent of the bite mark in Q’s forearm. Q literally stopped breathing, the werewolf’s mouth tracking over the bite, an intense act of intimacy. He lifted his head, pressing closer to Q, those extraordinary blue eyes watching him, like he could vanish at any moment.

“Bond. James Bond,” the werewolf growled, breath hot, hand looping around Q’s slim waist.

Q smiled, pinned out under Bond’s gaze, lifting a hand to his face as he had when still a child, gently stroking the soft skin. He could imagine the fur beneath, the scope of the creature. “Hello,” Q murmured, as he reached through Bond’s short hair, the precise shade of the werewolf from so many years ago. “An MI6 agent, hmm?”

“My _Quartermaster_ ,” Bond pointed out, with a touch of near-objection, lips trailing lightly over Q’s throat, Q’s pulse shivering in his veins. “You’re beautiful. More so than I expected.”

Q laughed a little, his heart soaring at the compliment from his werewolf, an instinctive part of him _needing_ the approval. “I was seven when we last met, if memory serves; you couldn’t have known how I’d turn out.”

“ _And_ you’ve clearly got a brain,” Bond commented with a thin smirk, the suggestion of teeth along Q’s neck making the young man moan.

A commuter shot them an odd look, disappearing rapidly at Bond’s expression; Q grinned, Bond barely containing himself from taking his bond mate fully, properly. “And you, agent 007, are a _werewolf_ ,” Q breathed in his ear, accepting Bond for everything he was.

Bond kissed him.

It was surprisingly gentle, for a werewolf. Q was expecting all teeth and ferocity, and was met with a deliberate form of gentility, care. He melded into it, feeling _right_ , his werewolf kissing him, Q’s body responding on instinct, pressing closer with a low whine while Bond outright growled.

“Not here, hmm?” Bond suggested; while it wouldn’t be the first time a werewolf had claimed his mate in public, really, Bond wasn’t fond of the idea. Nor was Q, but he was rapidly losing control of his sense on the matter.

Q’s hips shifted against his, Bond purring low in his throat. “Oh _god_ ,” Q rasped, kissing him again while Bond laughed, a sound like a rolling growl. He pulled away from his bond mate, pulling his forearm back up to nip against the bite, a human imprint over the bite left behind.

Bond’s voice was a low, steady murmur, tying Q to him, keeping him there indefinitely. His mate.

\---

By the time Bond pulled his mate through the door, Q was blinking too-quickly, his pulse a little elevated; there was an instinct, imprinted into him as a seven-year-old, that this was the only person in the _world_ who was right for him, the creature that would complete him entirely.

Sex was only a small portion of it. Q’s life was linked with Bond’s in a way nobody had yet learned to understand; Bond, all of those years ago, hadn’t had a choice in the matter any more than Q did. It was an impulse, a drive, an intangible thread that threw the two of them into a single life with the surety that it would work, it would be okay. They were the antithesis and equal of one another.

Q’s exhale was all relief and want and need, as his werewolf kissed him with a passion that was truly exhilarating. Q could have laughed with the sheer dizziness of it, the completion, the ending after years of anticipation, waiting to be found, to be claimed.

Bond’s body hummed with a palpable need that came of fifteen years waiting for _this moment_ , the beautiful boy grown into a young man who was precisely _right_. The scent was indescribable, something Q himself would never understand as a human; Bond had known in an instant, the moment he caught it, knew it would develop into the one thing that would keep him tethered to any form of humanity.

Being thrown onto the bed, quite literally, was a new experience; Q hadn’t bothered trying other partners, knew he would never find anybody that could equal the promise of his werewolf, the crystal blue that he dreamt of growing up, watching him now with a hunger that somehow wasn’t frightening.

Werewolves killed. They were uncontrollable, immensely strong; when changed, they were some of the most lethal predators in the known world. Bond was no exception. Killing Q would be simple, easy, and very quick.

Q’s parents had never understood, and that was fine. It didn’t matter what they thought; Q was one of the safest people in the world, now, as Bond ripped off his clothes with a ferocity that was all lupine, and Q didn’t mind in the slightest.

Bond’s teeth and lips traced his body, Q reaching to run fingers through short-cropped hair; he was perfect, so _fucking_ perfect, body sculpted and elegant, rugged in places, from firefights and what were probably scraps with other animals. Q would ask, at some stage, and Bond would tell him the secrets of his scars while Q’s fingers traced them tenderly, pressing soft kisses over them.

Now, Bond growled as Q hooked his legs over Bond’s shoulders, their bodies flush against one another as Bond pressed against him, into him, Q’s breath catching once again at the unfamiliar sensation. Bond raised an eyebrow. “You’ve not done this before,” he stated, watching Q with an intensity that split him open.

“You’re my werewolf,” he replied simply, softly, explaining everything through a handful of words, a statement of unequivocal fact. He waited, because he wanted Bond. Just Bond.

Bond’s spine rippled with satisfaction, pleasure. He was losing power of speech, giving himself over to instinct, retaining enough of himself to stay gentle with his young partner.

He prepared Q carefully, Q’s head thrown back, throat exposed as he gasped. Bond shuffled the young man onto his lap, lifting him slightly, letting him sink down onto Bond’s length with a muffled cry of sheer ecstasy.

Bond’s head wrapped over Q’s shoulder, licking, biting over his shoulders and torso as he built a rhythm, Q letting out gorgeous cries, Bond reached between them to stroke his mate closer to orgasm, coming with an atonal cry.

A few more thrusts, and Bond was coming too; he bit down on the side of Q’s elegant neck as he did so, breaking the skin, the feeling oddly painless for Q as it bled sluggishly, Bond’s tongue lapping at it, healing the torn skin into a formed scar, only visible in certain lights. A brand, the unique patterning of Bond’s teeth, marking Q as specifically _his_.

Q fell forward on Bond, arms looped through and over and around him, smothering him, holding him in place. Bond reciprocated, strong arms keeping his mate there, the marks on his arm and throat throbbing with a mimicry of Bond’s pulse. Two lives, inextricably linked, bonded now eternally.

“My Q,” Bond growled, the young human still bundled against him.

Q smiled slightly, seeing Bond in double; the agent holding him now, the werewolf he would soon see again in the flesh. His werewolf. “Yours,” Q agreed, and let himself be cradled by the ferocious creature who was, for some wonderful reason, his.


	37. The Prostitute!Bond fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Always love your fics! I have prompt, if you’re still taking? 00Q AU: Bond is prostitute, but never ashamed of it. Then he met Q and decide to lie about his job (still flirting phase). One day Q come to visit, he hears moaning/sex from Bond’s apt (Silva? ) and thought he’s cheating on him! Still not officially dating tho, hehe almost. Would love to see their confrontation! - anon

Bond didn’t understand. Everything had been going so well; Q was an intelligent, brilliant young man – and Bond wanted to be with him, more than he could say.

Q had no idea of Bond’s profession, which Bond had felt was for the best; they had met in a coffee shop, no reason that Q should find out what he did at nights. They’d spent over an hour talking about anything and everything, and Bond had found himself genuinely enjoying being with the young man for more than seduction. It hadn’t gone very far yet, but it was _something_.

Now, Q was avoiding him. Bond knew where Q lived – he went to Q’s flat, rung the doorbell, was met with a defensive string of a human being, glaring angrily through a black fringe.

“Q, are you alright?” Bond asked worriedly. Q just stared at him, refusing to respond. “ _Q_.”

Q opened the door silently, inviting Bond in; he shut the door behind them, and before Bond could say a word, Q was speaking in a low, black voice. “How does it work then?” he asked, with a touch of pure bitterness. “You flirt with me, make me think… make me believe we might be able to have something like a relationship, and you… you’re fucking around… is that all I am to you? The chance for a good night?”

Bond was rendered speechless for approximately four seconds. “You need to understand something…”

“I understand perfectly fucking well!” Q hissed, still with his back to the door; he’d locked them in to avoid a scene in the corridor, where other flats could listen in. “ _Jesus_ , James.”

“Q, please, _listen_ to me…”

“… I don’t know why in the hell I bothered. I went to yours to ask if you wanted dinner, for fuck’s sake. I get there, and you’re groping some bint in the corridor. So go on, your ‘explanation’?!”

“ _I’m a prostitute,_ ” Bond roared at him, abruptly, lividly angry. He gave a bitten off yell, throwing a harsh kick at the wall; thankfully an external rather that division wall, so he didn’t cause damage to anybody but himself. He took a moment, breathing harshly. “ _Fuck_ , Q. She was a client. That’s all. A _fucking_ client.”

Q looked like he’d been slapped.

Neither of them spoke for a long, awful moment. Bond stared at the wall, fist clenched above his head. Q took a step or two back, hitting the door, almost sliding down it.

“God,” Q breathed, legs nearly going from under him. “Oh _god_.”

Silence, once again.

“I’m not sorry, Q,” Bond said harshly. “I’m safe about it, I work independent of any pimps or such rubbish. I’m a free agent, a man who chooses to sell their body for a good fee. It doesn’t mean anything; it’s a job.”

Q was finding it rather hard to breathe. “James, I can’t… I need to think,” Q rasped, propelling himself away from the door with some difficulty, leaving it free for Bond to walk out of. “This is… this is _way_ beyond… I think… fuck, I don’t know _what_ I think.”

Bond was very silent, very still, fist clenched tight enough to see white knuckles, inches from splitting the skin. “Know that I value you,” Bond said simply, and left Q to consider the rest, to think on how far that would stretch.

With that, he left Q’s flat.

\---

Q remained curled at the foot of his wall for a little while, hands over his face, staring blankly as he tried to wrap his head around it.

He wasn’t sure if Bond being a prostitute was better or worse than the man cheating on him. ‘Cheating’ wasn’t the right word, technically speaking, but for god’s _sake_ , he made a living out of having sex, and Q had no idea how to deal with that.

Ultimately, very little could be achieved by simply sitting there, wondering, thinking. He needed to speak to Bond, work out what to do next, try and decide if there was anything retrievable in their relationship.

He knocked on the door with his knuckles, folding his arms over his chest in an unconsciously defensive pose as he listened for motion inside the flat. He couldn’t help the glances towards the wall, where he’d seen Bond with his ‘client’; he’d probably be unable to look at most of the damn flat without wondering which surfaces he’d fucked people over.

“You came back,” Bond said, sounding faintly surprised as he looked over Q’s curled-up form, propped by his doorway.

Q shrugged a little. There were infinite answers to that statement, mostly revolving around the fact that he simply didn’t want to let Bond go. The reasons why were beyond him, but he really did care, had genuinely hoped they could be in some type of relationship.

Bond stepped back, letting Q into the flat. Q took a breath, intentionally refusing to consider what parts had been utilised in Bond’s ‘job’, letting Bond lead him into the living room he knew so well.

He settled onto the sofa, Bond’s expression caged. “I like you,” Q said quietly, not quite looking at Bond. “I… I’d hoped we could…”

“Why past tense?” Bond interjected, before Q could finish the sentence. His eyes were sharp and cold, watching the younger man carefully as he took a breath, trying to construct his thoughts.

Q fidgeted a little, finally meeting Bond’s gaze. “Do you actually want me, in a sexual way?” he asked, voicing the fear that was foremost in his head. “If this is… if sex is somewhat irrelevant, I can’t imagine that you’d have much active interest outside of your ‘job’.”

Bond was still a moment. “My job has no bearing on my personal life,” he said slowly. “I want you. And if you want me, I see no reason why we cannot try for a relationship.”

“You’re still going to sleep with other people,” Q pointed out.

Bond raised an eyebrow. “And you’re still going to risk prison on a near-daily basis, by hacking into secure servers. Neither occupation is ideal, but _will not_ affect my behaviour or feelings towards you.”

It was difficult to imagine. Q hated the idea of Bond being with infinite numbers of other people, but didn’t have any way of expressing that without seeming to interfere in Bond’s life. It was his choice.

He watched Bond lean in to him, expression wary and careful. Q smiled slightly, moving the last quarter-inch forward to press his lips to Bond’s in a gentle, explorative kiss.

Maybe it wouldn’t work. It was a possibility.

Q was damned if he wasn’t going to _try_.


	38. The 18!Bond fill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Bond was turned into an 18 year old girl? What would Q do? - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for nsfw content.

The girl was no older than eighteen. She sat oddly, feet shoulder-width apart, head resting in her hands, leaning forwards, staring into the distance. She looked up when Q entered the flat.

“The prodigal Quartermaster returns. Where have you been?”

Q had a gun in her face in a microsecond. The girl raised an eyebrow, blue eyes staring back at him with an expression of weariness. “Q. It’s me.”

“What?” Q asked, flicking off the safety.

“Q. It’s James,” the girl said, somewhat implausibly. “I live here. I have a key. I got hit very hard on the head, and I don’t know what happened, but I’m female.”

“No shit,” Q snapped, inches away from shooting; he had a crazy teenage girl in his apartment, for fuck’s sake. “Now look, whoever you think you are, you have _seconds_ before I use this.”

“You’ve never killed anyone before,” the girl responds, expression contorting into a grimace as hair falls in her face. She tries to brush it out, seems utterly _perplexed_ by the presence of her own breasts. “This is bloody inconvenient,” she muttered to herself, re-establishing spatial awareness of her own body.

Q entertains, for the weirdest of moments, the possibility that this is true. That James Bond has _somehow_ wound up as a teenage girl, and is sat in his living room wearing rather absurd-looking _oversized male Armani suit_.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Q swears, eyes widening as he glances up and down the girl. “ _James?!_ ”

“Yes,” the girl replies, without gratitude, just a sense of ‘ _well yes, obviously_ ’. Definitely James Bond. Blonde, young, with a quite impressive set of breasts buried somewhere in a man’s shirt.

Q lowered the gun, gaping. “You’re…”

“Yes,” Bond muttered, cursing quietly again as he adjusted himself in the ill-fitting clothing, ranting to himself about the absolute irrelevance of breasts for the first time in his life. “Tell me about it.”

\---

Q grew a little more accustomed to the idea, as time wore on. It was still James. True, having an eighteen year old James Bond was… new, to say the least, but at hadn’t undergone a personality transplant.

“Alright, I sourced the tech used,” Q said eventually; Bond was sat on the corner of the sofa, literally feeling himself up, clearly unused to his own parameters. “It should wear off. It’s just a case of waiting it out.”

Bond sat back slightly, blinking. “I’m stuck in the body of a teenage girl, for a little while yet?” he asked, just to clarify. Q nodded. “Q… I have a proposition for you. I will understand if you decline.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Q commented drily.

The girl that was Bond moved with a little bit of discomfort, clearly confused by her own weight distribution, before curling a hand around Q’s cheek, and kissing him lightly. Bond pulled back again, eyes bright.

Q blinked.

“It’s a damn good thing I’m bisexual,” he noted, before kissing him again, deep and passionate. It couldn’t be denied that Bond made a truly _gorgeous_ girl, all curves and hair and rounded _everything_. “Are you sure, James?”

“Yes,” the girl replied, and Q just decided that god _damn it_ , this was apparently his life so why in the hell _wouldn’t_ he make the most of his boyfriend being changed into a _very hot_ teenager. “ _Oh_ ,” she said abruptly, as Q pushed her back on the sofa. “This is novel.”

“Do you want to fuck, or commentate?” Q asked sharply, exploring the bizarre edges of a female body. Not a new experience, but it had certainly been a while; he let his hand trace the indented waist and wide hips, sliding beneath the ill-fitting clothes to feel the soft, warm skin.

Bond growled slightly, nipping at Q’s lip as his hand moved lower, finger tracing her entrance, massaging the head of nerves with merciless precision. “ _Fuck_ ,” Bond said, more out of shock than anything else; a completely different type of experience, pleasurable in a sense that demanded more, demanded _deeper_ and fuller and harder, and Bond began to understand.

“Q, _please_ fuck me,” the young woman asked in Bond’s flat, unforgiving tone, a curious juxtaposition. “Or I swear…”

The sound Bond made as Q’s finger slid inside her wet entrance was very unladylike. It wasn’t uncomfortable, or even very tight; another finger slid in quite easily, Q blinking at the peculiarities of it all, experimentally crooking his fingers to make Bond swear impressively. “This is…” Bond told him, eyes wide. “… _bizarre_.”

“Good bizarre?” Q asked lightly, curiously, thumb running over her clit with his fingers pressed on the spongy area of the G-spot, nerves coming alive, Bond’s body unaccustomed it.

Bond swore again, and nodded, hair falling into her face. “Unbelievably good bizarre,” he promised, and let Q explore.


	39. The Professor/Student fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love reading your fills! I think 00Q University AU is seriously lacking at the mo. If it’s ok, would you please write something about Bond as Professor and Q as student doing cutesy things during a seminar. Like private jokes between them and trying to hide it from everyone but really it’s so obvious. Lots of fluff! But then smut is always encouraged… Thank you so much! - anon

Professor Bond was an expert in the field of international relations – ostensibly nothing to do with Q’s own expertise in computer sciences, and maths. Yet Q wanted to be involved with government, preferably civil service; a level of international relations was extremely necessary.

Q liked Bond. When Q started asking some exceptionally political-based questions around the subject of Israel and Palestine, Bond listened, and promptly disabused him of many established notions. He had razor-sharp intelligence, and a smile that could burn on contact.

Bond liked Q. He was an active, sublime little creature, the embodiment of subtlety. An obedient, considerate student, punctual and efficient, and unpredictable.

Q walked to the front of the classroom after the first seminar, bold as brass. “Drinks? There are still pubs in this city that aren’t wholly choked with the inebriated student body.”

“Are you not a part of the inebriated student body?”

“Student body? Possibly,” Q smirked. “I’m also a post-grad, and ‘inebriation’ loses its appeal after a certain point. I’m just a little too old for that kind of rubbish. I’m fond of my liver.”

“Very sensible,” Bond murmured. “Now, Q. You are aware that there will be rumours, if we were to start meeting outside teaching hours?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said simply. He placed a hand on the desk, depositing a piece of paper; Bond saw the string of numbers, and smirked; Q’s expression was coy, delectable, as he turned to walk out. “I’ll text you where, if you decide you’re interested.”

-

Bond lasted a handful of minutes before calling. “Q?”

Q’s smile was absurdly audible, as they exchanged details, and Bond prepared to meet one of his students for what was definitely not intended as an innocent little get-together. Q’s eyes burned with unmitigated lust, and Bond couldn’t deny he was interested.

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

-

The next lecture found Q, sitting a little awkwardly on his chair, lips bitten to a red stain, the gaze over the top of his glasses intoxicating. He pouted very slightly, each motion breathing sex, giving soft reminders.

Bond found it surprisingly difficult to concentrate on the seminar, as Q shifted in his seat, giving an almost inaudible little sound of discomfort that came with having been quite thoroughly fucked the previous night.

Distracting little shit.

“Q, can I speak to you a moment?” Bond asked innocuously, as the rest of the students filtered out. Q’s gaze was perfectly modulated, surprise and interest playing over his features.

Once everybody had gone, Bond pulled the young man into a destructively bruising kiss, Q moaning into his mouth. “Are you angry with me, sir?” Q asked, voice low, rasping with want.

“Immensely,” Bond confirmed, squeezing Q’s arse mercilessly, the boy whimpering faintly.

“Good.”

\---

Bond was intent that they be exceptionally careful. Q, on the other hand, rather enjoyed pushing the boundaries.

“Q, can I have a word on your latest essay?” Bond asked at the end of the class; Q hung back with perfectly modulated petulancy, muttering to his peers, pretending to be a part of their world.

Q slouched as he followed Bond into his office. The moment the door was closed, locked, he was kissing Bond with enough passion to break the older man in half. “Enjoy the lecture?”

“Was a little distracted,” Q admitted, pressing his groin against Bond’s suggestively, whining faintly.

Bond pulled back, glancing up at down the young student with mild amusement. “You are _listening_ to me, yes?” Bond asked in a deep voice, hands tucked around Q’s body. “I would _hate_ for my teaching to go to waste…”

“Go on, test me,” Q smirked, worrying Bond’s lower lip between his teeth. “I’ll still be top of the class, I can assure you of that.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, wondering just how he could test the theory. “Hmm,” he thought aloud, squeezing Q’s skinny arse. “Exam revision with added spanking, I should think.”

Q shuddered deliciously in his hands, kissing Bond deeply.

There were three loud knocks on the door.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Q swore softly; Bond’s face turned terrifyingly hard, Q dropping into the chair opposite Bond’s desk while Bond stayed standing, moving to put a good distance between the pair of them. Q lifted hands to his hair, neurotically running fingers through.

Bond cleared his throat slightly, unlocking the door. “Sorry, come on in,” he said to his colleague; a white-haired professor of English, Q believed. Q smiled, keeping his expression slightly mournful; he and Bond had discussed what to do in these situations.

The English professor glanced at the door with obvious curiosity. Q’s voice was quiet, slightly tremulous “Hi – Professor Bond was just… I mean, I’m just going…”

“Pastoral matters,” Bond interjected in a low voice, expression serious. The professor’s eyes widened, and he nodded slightly; students would occasionally seek out professors to discuss home lives, families, issues they couldn’t escape nor speak to anybody about.

It was an ample enough cover story, and accepted. Bond dispatched the man in a few more sentences, turning back to Q.

“That was close,” Q commented quietly, eyes still glancing to the door.

Bond leaned forward, kissed him again. “I know,” he admitted. “But – we managed it. Only a few more months, Q.”

Q smiled, nodded faintly, kissed Bond again with a type of desperation, keeping him pinned in place. “I can’t wait,” he admitted, voice gentle, blindingly honest.

He stood, and slipped out of the door.


	40. The Q-branch Bomb fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt- mi6 has been compromised, the system is being hacked and qbranch is experiencing a lockdown. While Q and the others attempt to open the exits bond is informed by a target that there is a bomb in qbranch. Ending is up to you - anon

“Bond, status?”

“Target in range. How’s the lockdown coming?”

Q laughed, semi-infectiously, tinged only slightly by worry. Bond knew Q well enough to hear the stress, the irritation; Q-branch had been locked in, the hack triggering the entire place to become impenetrable. Not a quirk of Q’s design; somebody had intentionally trapped the whole of Q-branch.

Bond was tracking a target who, it was believed, had some idea of _why_ Q-branch had gone into lockdown, and was also able to remotely remove some of the invasive probes that had forced their way into the MI6 servers.

“Remind me to find a time machine so I can go _murder_ the moron who thought that putting hydraulic, several-tonne doors on Q-branch was a _good idea_. Technically, nobody could get in or out, so it did theoretically work. The old Q had, however, believed his branch impervious to problems, and thus really didn’t think about the possibilities of said doors being used against them.

Bond pinned the target against a wall, gun under his chin, expression calm and lethal.  “Target acquired,” Bond said simply, the man looking terrified; clearly, he hadn’t expected MI6 to track him down so quickly. Bond’s smile was cold and grim.

“Interrogate at will, I’m getting cabin fever in here,” Q told him honestly; Bond tuned out the typing in his ear, Q’s voice, and began a rather thorough, not particularly pleasant, interrogation.

Q hummed vaguely in his ear to drown out the pained grunts, and used any information Bond acquired without hesitation; nothing seemed to be moving in terms of lifting the lockdown, irritatingly.

Until, of course, they received the final piece of intelligence: the reason behind Q-branch being targeted. Bond broke the man’s wrist in a deft movement, because he wanted to, and because the target looked disgustingly _happy_ about his cell plotting to kill several dozen people. “Q, did you get that?”

“I need location, type, et cetera,” Q replied, his voice impossibly, ridiculously calm. Bond was quiet a moment, and Q didn’t decide to probe too deeply as to what he was going that was causing the target to make little gasping noises. “ _Bond_ , a little speed, if you would.”

Bond didn’t grace that with an answer, instead slamming the target’s head against the wall. “Regular TNT, storage cupboard off the central corridor, countdown timer,” Bond relayed.

“On it,” Q replied; his voice was still calm, fractured only by the slight increase of respiratory rate as he ran.

Bond knocked out the target; he didn’t know anything further, was of little further use. “Q?” Bond asked curtly. “Q, _status_ , please.”

“I’m sorry,” Q murmured. Bond’s heartbeat suspended, everything freezing in place as his mind tried to digest what in the _fuck_ Q was saying.

The line wrenched with static.

\---

Q had enough time to take stock of the bomb – patchwork wires, grey slabs – before reading the number on the electronic display. He scrambled away, trying to find somewhere out of direct range, his voice very steady _I’m sorry_ and he was frightened, in a way that made him feel about six years old, terrified of monsters.

The noise was incredible, impossible, seemed to reach him before anything else. Q was flat beneath a doorframe, hoping the supported structure would protect him a little, curling himself inwards at the same instant  he was thrown violently to one side, and the ceiling collapsed.

-

Bond reached MI6 to find the various rescue teams doing their level best to retrieve anybody left alive. Q-branch was quite deep underground, one of the lower MI6 levels; the explosion had caused severe structural damage, the floors depressing inwards.

There was a chance, albeit minimal, that some were still alive. In any case, there was equipment and bodies to be retrieved; the teams dug their way further in, trying to tap into the main blossomed opening of Q-branch.

Bond joined the teams, and also mentioned that Q had been out of the main branch, in a side corridor. He was a priority, naturally, but was also more likely to already be dead; the rescue team resources were rather extensive, but a single person was likely to be difficult to retrieve.

It was seven hours before they found somebody still alive.

-

A lot of things hurt.

Q’s ears were ringing louder than he knew possible, and the pain from them was excruciating, made him feel sick and dizzy and disorientated. There was a frighteningly unpromising weight across his legs, but he was breathing freely, and he was definitely alive.

It was very, very dark.

Memory returned in increments; Q lifted a hand to his ear, pulled out the earpiece to find it slick with blood. He was pleasantly surprised at the fact he could still move. It boded relatively well.

The decent quantity of rubble pinning his legs in place was less good. Q wasn’t sure how they weren’t crushed yet, but knew enough about such things to not attempt moving them on his own. He could dislodge the balance, potentially send several tonnes of cement and brick on his legs or whole body.

He tried to call out; his own voice was rasping, didn’t make it out of the confined space he was in. Everything around him was solid, impregnable.

Q reached to a flat bit of rock, and started tapping out an SOS, frantically praying that somebody would hear him.

\---

The loneliness didn’t take very long to set in.

Q knew he needed to stay awake. As long as he was making some sort of noise, the team above ground could scout for vibrations, try and trace whatever it was making the sounds. If he fell asleep, they could miss him, and he would never be found.

Time had no meaning. His cardigan was ruined. He was very thirsty.

_James?_

Inexorably, time slid onwards. Q began to understand that if he didn’t get water, he would be dead very quickly. A day or so, at best, and he would die of thirst while trapped underground. If he was likely to suffocate, chances were he already would have done so, and in case there was nothing he could do on that score.

_I’m not dead. Please, please find me._

England; moisture. Rain, damp air. Q’s ears were still ringing painfully loudly, he couldn’t tell if it was raining, but there was collected moisture on the stones; deciding to forego pride or concerns, he pressed lips against it, got out what moisture he could.

It began to get cold. Within a handful of minutes, or so it seemed, the temperature plummeted.

A few minutes after that, and water started seeping through the cracks above his head. “Fuck,” Q breathed; it was raining, or a pipe had burst. The vibrations would be lost, the water level could potentially rise, and the cold was unforgiving, and it could dislodge the rubble on his legs and he _really_ didn’t want to lose his legs.

_James, I’m scared. Please, please get me out of here._

Q drank some of the dusty, murky water that dribbled around him, shirt sticking wetly to his torso, beginning to shiver faintly. The SOS moved from taps to flat-palmed hits against the concrete, fear, panic, choking him. He was going to die here, starved or drowned or cold or solitude-driven insanity.

The water stopped dribbling. Rain, then. His legs were still intact.

_James, you’re taking a really fucking long time about all this._

He started talking to himself, just to hear another voice, trying to cut through the incessant ringing. Strangled songs, short lines, waking up to curse and swear at having slept, trying to drink, painfully hungry and long since past the point of caring that he’d soiled himself, legs feeling scarily numb, still _fucking_ shivering, feeling very sick, and he would have to very naïve to not know what that indicated given that he’d managed a serious ear injury. Infection was something of a given.

“Use thermal imaging, you fucking idiots,” Q mumbled, wondering if he was too deeply buried, if he was now languished in a stone sarcophagus where nobody would ever find him. If he was genuinely feverous, he should show up on the new deep scanners.

Which were, of course, in the Q-branch cupboards. Fucking brilliant. Not to mention that Q-branch ran parallel to parts of the central heating system in the building, which would have taken a while to lose residual heat.

_I’m really really scared James, and I don’t know what to do, and I don’t think you’re going to find me in time, and I really don’t want to die like this._

A scratching type of sound, audible through Q’s melee.

“ _I’m here_ ,” he screamed, clawing at the walls, the slabs of brick and concrete. “ _Please, somebody, I’m here_.”

He continued screaming until his voice gave out, throat rasping and painful, vision blurring out. It was the first time, he realised, that he had actually missed his glasses; it was too dark before to care.

Before.

It was very dim, muffled, but present. Definitely present. Q collected every fragment of energy in his body, trying to find where the hazy light had come from, realising it was somewhere over his feet, somewhere in the piles of rubble over his legs.

If there was light, they were close. Q started hammering back on the wall, ignoring the pervasive tiredness. Not now, they could _not_ miss him now, not when they were _so close_. “ _I’m here I’m here I’m here I’m here_ ,” Q repeated, again and again, other hand snaking out to try and find something, anything.

A rush of pure oxygen. No dust or splintering air, just the pure, cool taste of an English evening. _He’s here, we’ve got him_ , somebody yelled, and Q’s eyes slid shut before Bond managed to get there.

\---

Bond had spent every second working with the various teams to pull out survivors, trying to track down Q; his body hadn’t been recovered, there was no sign.

 Twenty-four hours later, and there were ten Q-branch employees that had been retrieved. All were in various medical states, ranging from broken bones to small scratches. One girl was almost entirely unharmed.

Thus far, fourteen had been confirmed dead. The chances of anybody being retrieved alive diminished with every passing hour, Bond knew that, but there was no sign of Q, and until the young man had been found – in whatever state – Bond damn well wasn’t leaving.

Halfway through the first day, it started raining. The rescue teams were equal parts terrified and delighted; it doused the small fires that had cropped up around the wreckage, made it potentially possible for other scanners to be used. At present, it had to be manual, which was exceptionally long and had led to a number of fruitless searches through rubble.

Bond kept going, growing steadily more exhausted as the hours crept by, the likelihood of Q being alive becoming less and less. He was resourceful, certainly, but collapsed buildings were unlikely to be the ideal place for a technophile and computer analyst. Bond slept by the edge of a building for two hours, woke up, started searching again; Q needed him.

Sixty-one hours. Seventeen alive. Over thirty dead. Most of the branch was now accounted for, barring six or seven people, and Q. R was dead. The survivors were dehydrated, starving, some freezing after the previous day’s rain; it was getting worse by the second, and Bond still damn well refused to leave it alone.

The noise was unbelievably faint, almost lost in the quiet softness of the evening; the rescue team member leaned in closer, trying to work out where it was coming from. “Over here,” she called abruptly; most of the team were working in the main central area of Q-branch, but Q was still missing, and it was understood that he was somewhere else in the vicinity.

Gently dislodging the pieces of brick, of rubble, took a while; suddenly, a flash of white skin, the near-inaudible rasps becoming voiced.

“He’s here, we’ve got him,” she yelled, looking back over the wasted figure of the young man beneath; his legs were trapped firmly in place, eyes blinking languidly, hand banging pathetically against concrete, voice barely audible. He was alive. _Fuck_. “Q, look at me. We’ve got you, but I need you to stay awake.”

His eyes slid closed.

“Q, you open your fucking eyes, _now_ , I know you can hear me,” Bond said sharply; he looked to the team for confirmation to reach down, hand cupping Q’s cheek gently, voice at odds with his actions.

Q’s eyes slid open again. “I’m not dead,” he whispered, sounding almost impressed by that fact, lips white and cracked, skin inhumanly pale. “Head hurts. James. _James_. Can’t feel my legs. James, I…”

“I’m here, Q,” Bond soothed, thumb gently rubbing Q’s temple. “You’ve okay. I’ve got you.”

“Q, we’re going to try moving the rubble over your legs. I need you to tell me if anything hurts, if there’s any pressure anywhere,” the original woman told him; Q blinked again, eyes sliding out of focus, nodding slightly.

By the time they got him out, Q was unconscious. The medical teams swarmed like locusts, tending to everything they could, trying to keep the implausibly still-living Quartermaster intact. It was an impressively long time to have survived on his own; Bond could read the stories in the small area his lover’s body had been compressed in, his mostly unharmed body. He was more damaged by the time it had taken to find him than he was by any initial injuries.

The Medical team ran him through; dehydration, but better than anybody had expected. Loss of circulation to his legs, which they wouldn’t be able to fully analyse the effects of until he was conscious again. Malnutrition. Trauma to both ears from the explosion volume; again, the full extent could not be known just yet, but medical teams were already trying to reconstruct the eardrums. Finally, an ear infection. The resulting fever was, by far, the most dangerous effect.

Ultimately – Q was alive, just.

Bond was damn well going to keep him that way.

\---

Bond spent a very, very long time outside in the waiting room.

Somewhere in the depths of the hospital, Q was being worked on. The medical teams were unanimously shocked that Q was even alive, but they were not going to waste the young man’s work in managing to survive; they battled to bring down his fever, gently delving into his ears with some rather innovative new attempts at eardrum reconstruction.

The latter was risky. If they didn’t try, however, Q stood a decent chance of losing his hearing.

Naturally, Q had no family. High-level MI6 employees never did. In lieu of anybody else, Bond was consulted on all medical decisions. A terrifying concept; Bond was responsible for the future of somebody he loved, potentially gambling with things of such paramount importance. Q’s job, his mobility, his life.

It was too much responsibility.

“You can see him now,” somebody intoned gently; Bond looked up sharply, in motion faster than he knew possible.

Q looked tiny, but wonderfully alive. “Hey,” he whispered, voice too quiet.

“You’re a stubborn git, aren’t you?” Bond teased, smiling despite himself as he gently reached out, stroking gently along Q’s cheek. Q smiled foggily, nuzzling closer to Bond’s hand. “Fuck, Q. I thought I’d lost you.”

Q shrugged slightly. “I can’ do res’rrection like you, but I can cling onto life like a… a limpet,” he mumbled, eyes brightening a little at Bond’s soft laugh. “Like your laugh. Pretty laugh.”

“You’re on a fair amount of medication, hmm?” Bond smirked, tucking hair back behind Q’s ears, leaning in to press a light kiss to his forehead as Q giggled.

“Stuff for my ears. Head hurts ‘therwise. Legs too, but they’ll be okay,” Q yawned, arm leaning out to the water on the bedside table, flapping nervelessly. “Help?” he asked sheepishly. “’verythin’s wonky.”

Bond obliged, grabbing the glass, straw helpfully standing proud in it. Q sipped at it, fingers trying to awkwardly close around it for himself. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For findin’ me. Not givin’up.”

Q’s hands shifted to find Bond’s; stronger fingers tightened carefully, holding Q entirely in place. “I’ll not lose you,” Bond announced simply. “You matter too much.”

Q smiled dizzily, returning Bond’s kisses with absolute passion, as much as he was physical capable of giving. “Love you,” Q mumbled, nuzzling his head against Bond.

Bond looped an arm over Q’s shoulders, letting him sleepily topple back towards unconsciousness, fingers still linked together. “Love you too,” he confessed quietly, once Q was lost to sleep.


	41. The Artist!Bond fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is an artist AU? He’s notorious for sleeping with all his models and muses and has been trying to get a reluctant Q to pose for him for quite a while. Bond is genuinely interested in Q’s willowy form from an artist’s perspective but a relationship picks up after Q does a few sessions for him. - anon

Bond’s fingers were paint-stained and rough, indented where he had held brushes for days, hours at a time. The knuckle on the side of his third finger was calloused, skin hardened now, the tips of his fingers more than accustomed to smearing paint, colour deeply ingrained in the whorls of his skin.

He saw Q entirely by accident, assisting on a shoot, trying to get some money together in the vague hope of paying the rent, or at least more paints; several of his were running out. Q was a young, beautiful man, living under a pseudonym, working professionally as a model. He was gorgeous, all elegant lines and overly long limbs, immensely angular face, eyes large and delicate; the planes of his body would be treasured under a brush, a camera such a harsh medium for the transcendence of a boy like him.

Q blinked, and informed him that he was a model, not a prostitute. Bond raised an eyebrow; he had slept with several of his models, yes, but it was hardly a pre-requisite. Bond slowly tried to up his campaign, trying to find some way to coerce the beautiful creature into his studio.

After a while, Q rolled his eyes, and quietly agreed.

-

The boy was a natural model. He knew how to angle his shape perfectly, light catching on the flat slopes of his cheekbones, thin arms contorted and yet natural, freezing into position yet adapting his shape incrementally, seeming to predict Bond’s needs before Bond had them.

He was utterly entrancing. Bond had never created quite so much, never had so many ideas and thoughts, all at once; with Q, he found himself changing, adapting his methods to find some way of capturing him. Bond quickly realised he could spend eternities trying to somehow record everything of Q.

“Thank you,” Bond murmured, Q glancing up at him through long eyelashes, a flash of cloudy green making Bond’s breath catch. The young man smiled.

Bond counted seconds to their next session.

-

It happened by accident.

Bond was trying to arrange Q’s hair – the bouffant black mess needed occasional taming, after all – when his elbow had caught the jam jar of water he cleaned his brushes in, sending filthy water over Q’s shirt. Bond cursed, guiding the young man to the bathroom, hoping to get him cleaned up.

He is lost the moment Q’s shirt is gone. He had avoided this moment; some instinct had told him that it would be the end, if he saw. Now, with Q stripping off casually in front of him, Bond realised he was _never_ going to let the young man go.

“Stay a moment,” Bond murmured, eyes raking over the unbelievably skinny boy, colour and water dripping off him; Bond’s sink is irreparably stained with paints, and Q’s skin could be kaleidoscopic.

When Bond returns, Q is naked, limbs folded together to guard his modesty. Bond doesn’t ask, just nods, fingers painting watercolour stains across the intensely white skin, blue pooling in the hollow of his elbow, purple blurring with a deep green across his chest. Q’s lips part, still curled motionless, a tiny, breakable form in the corner of his bathroom, bleeding colour, and Bond paints him, the most beautiful canvas.

Q’s body begins to tell stories paper never could. Bond’s thumb runs a crimson smear under his right eye, the juxtaposition with the green of his eyes leaving him looking utterly beautiful, utterly vulnerable.

Time passes, neither saying a word as Bond tells stories, and Q listens.

Eventually, Bond takes pictures, captures the moment, ready to replicate it; his world is communication, and Q is his vessel. The boy twists, arcs, the thin light catching the ochre under his knee, the soft navy trickling up his inner thigh, a light green shading his collarbones.

Bond wants to trace the outline of his skeleton of his skin, learn every undulation of his body. Q watches him, the gorgeous pink-red of his lips mocking him soundlessly.

He steps out of the shower later, when all is done, the paint spiralled into his plughole, Q’s hair damp and clinging around the nape of his neck, all simple monochrome, black hair, white skin, red lips. The focal point of sparkling emerald.

“Tomorrow?” Bond asks, and Q’s lips twitch. When he nods, sheer relief rushes through him.

He counts down the minutes.

\---

Q towels his hair dry, naked limbs stretched, pale vines in anaemic light. He glances over Bond’s shoulder, the white canvas, patches of colour. There is a twining suggestion of form, of a figure reaching out, their body ethereal and untouchable, beautiful in a way that suggests strength and power and upward motion.

There have been studies, series, in a similar vein but different forms; the paintings study the intangible, the elusive unreality of a split prism, colour darting in progression but entirely untouchable.

They are all named initials, with no seeming rhyme or reason. This is one of Bond’s better ones; it has a lightness of touch that truly fits, much of the work suggestive. It is startling in what it conveys, or at least begins to.

He names it S. Q narrows his eyes; the mystery of how he names his pieces has been on Q’s mind for days, from the moment he noticed.

“Surely it’s obvious?” Bond asks, looking ‘Q’ up and down; Q’s mouth quirks. There is no painting called ‘Q’ in the collection; they range over various points of the alphabet, from Q’s least favourite (A) to his absolute favourite (R).

When Bond tells him, Q feels a shudder of something extraordinary slide through him, and wonders – again – at the strange being that is Bond. “I haven’t managed to capture you properly yet,” he says softly, and Q kisses him.

-

Bond’s fingers, lips, trace half-remembered colour. Q shudders beneath him, surrendering to him quite completely, and this, _this_ is the moment Bond has been waiting for; sliding into Q’s pliant body, the boy arching in a way that is unique to this moment. It is the only side of Q his art, his study, hasn’t yet accessed.

Q wakes with him, body curving against Bond’s, shadows bleeding darkly across the hollow at the base of his throat, the inward curl of his abdomen. He is beautiful in a way that robs the room of oxygen, Bond gasping for breath wordlessly as he tries to make the image imprint, cause immortality through simply watching, taking in every fragment of detail.

-

A handful of days later, and Q’s body is wrapped around Bond’s from behind, chin on Bond’s shoulder, watching him add the finishing touches to another piece.

It is the first time they met. Q’s knees are tucked to his chest, ankles crossed. The perspective is from above, Q looking up out of the canvas with perfect, ashy emerald eyes. Colour falls out of him, blurring lines into motion or sharpness, limbs elegant and infinite, the traces of bone and skin. The smile is a rose line, distorted slightly, sharp in the corner; it is familiar, the sarcastic, slightly disingenuous smile that speaks of secrets and half-lies.

Q is a beautiful enigma. Bond has captured that perfectly.

He will never know everything of Q; it is part of his appeal, knowing there is always something hidden, something to seek, something to strive for. It fuels the hunger for intrigue that lives in Bond’s soul, and _gods_ , but the boy is perfect.

It is not enough. Bond could work for years, decades, and it will never be enough.

Q kisses the side of his neck softly, as Bond deftly draws an amethyst ‘Q’ in the top left hand corner. He puts the brush away, leaving the canvas to dry as he kisses Q properly, seeing new ways to capture him with every passing moment.


	42. The Shrunk Collection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ohh my GOD, you are fantastic! :D I have a rather silly little prompt, if you’re up to it. Q is shrunk, and Bond must deal with an annoying miniature Quartermaster. - anon

“Bond, could you come into my office? The door is open, just come in, close it behind you, and don’t talk to any of my branch.”

It was not Q’s weirdest demand. Bond sighed, and obliged; he was upstairs on the shooting range, heading down to Q-branch was only a few-minute journey. The Q-branch kids fell back deferentially as they saw Bond, letting him slip into Q’s office.

Oddly, the office appeared empty.

“Bond, look at my keyboard, if you would,” a disconnected voice told him. Bond’s eyes narrowed; it sounded like Q, but the man in question was nowhere in the vicinity. He did as told, glancing at the keyboard.

He didn’t even swear. He just stared.

“Don’t get me started,” Q said drily. Q, who was a little under six inches tall – an inch for every foot, Bond’s mind supplied despite itself – and wrapped in the sleeve of his shirt. The rest of his clothes, Bond abruptly noticed, were scattered over his chair and floor.

“You’re…”

“I noticed. Bond, I have no clothing, as you can see. I need your help to get out of Q-branch, and work out how I’m going to get around this. I don’t know if it fades, I don’t know how it happened in the first place. Laugh, and I’ll make your life hell.”

It was difficult to _not_ laugh. Q was six inches tall and stark naked.

“How do you suggest I get you out of here?” Bond asked flatly, trying to pretend he wasn’t at all affected by the new turn of events. “I think people will notice, if…”

“Bond, tear off a strip of cloth from my shirt so I have _something_ to protect my non-existent modesty,” Q snapped. “Then, you can… I don’t know, interior jacket pocket, I’d guess.”

“My _jacket?!_ ”

Q didn’t blink. “I’m not staying that close to your cock when I’m the same size as it,” he said primly, trying to retain some sense of dignity while Bond snorted.

Bond tore a strip off Q’s shirt, handing it over. Q rolled himself up in it awkwardly, ending up with a toga-like effect. “You’ll have to hide my clothes, or people will talk,” Q told him, surprisingly uppity for somebody of his size. “I’ll use my laptop at home, and possibly use you too, and reverse this,” he said to himself, and to Bond. “How _annoying_.”

Bond cleared everything quickly, ramming it in a desk drawer, Q wincing as he knocked over something in the bottom drawer. “Alright then. You ready?”

“As much as I’ll ever be,” Q snapped back, clutching the strip of shirt around him awkwardly. “Try not to kill me, would you?”

“I’ll do my best,” Bond said with an ingratiating smile, scooping Q into his hand; Q gave a muffled complaint, as Bond slid him into the interior jacket pocket of his rather lovely suit.

“ _It smells weird_ ,” Q called up to him, muffled by cloth. Bond rolled his eyes; Q really was impossible, regardless of size.

“You’re welcome,” Bond hissed back, as he walked into Q-branch with their leader stashed in his pocket.

\---

A very small Q in a toga was dancing on a laptop keyboard.

Seriously.

Bond had long since started drinking, mainly because if he didn’t, there was a decent chance of his losing any tenuous grasp on sanity he thought he may have had. Q was busy on his laptop – his feet approximately half the length of a key, making him jump from one key to another, just about stretching (although ‘a’ to ‘p’ was not even slightly possible).

“I still have no idea of how this happened,” Q confessed a while later, looking shattered with the effort of essentially _leaping_ from key to key. “There seems little explicable reason. The tech I was working on…”

“Is surely the only explanation?” Bond asked, with a hint of desperation. The idea that it was possible to randomly be shrunk at a moment’s notice was honestly terrifying. Not to mention the fact that Q’s predicament needed reversing, _as fast as possible_ , before MI6 reported him missing, or worse.

Q shrugged. “I have no idea,” he panted, topping over on the space bar. “Sod this. Bond, I’m dictating, you’re typing.”

Bond blinked. “Please, tell me you’re joking,” he asked slowly, feeling blood drain from his expression. Q typed faster than Bond could think, and had absolutely no patience.

Q glared at him; it was surprisingly endearing on a thing of his size. Bond suppressed the urge to pat his head with a finger.

“Bond, you will do as I ask, or I swear…”

“You’ll what, bite my ankle?!” Bond asked, incredulous, and mildly irritated. Q just stared at him, expression tangibly lethal.

Q’s voice was a low, dark hiss. “You will regret this,” he promised, collapsing cross-legged on the built-in mousepad, and sulking. Bond sighed, and scooping his shrunken Quartermaster into his palm, the young man yelping as he struggled to keep his toga in place. Given that he was just over twice the height of a needle, the thing was held together with a straightened-out staple, which was still worryingly large in proportion to Q’s body.

Bond sighed, the alcohol making his brain feel faintly fuzzy, and happily so. “It’s late. You’re less than six inches tall. I am _not_ going to potentially break through MI6 firewalls, under your instruction, while tired, vaguely inebriated, and in shock.”

“Bond, _I want to be normal size_ ,” Q yelled, disproportionately loudly for his current stature.

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Yell at me again, and I’ll trap you in a shoebox,” he promised, while Q snarled viciously, fighting to get out of Bond’s grip. Q’s attempts to kick were like being poked by a pencil, his bite like a very annoying flea. “Same goes for biting. Shoebox.”

“I will make your life hell, when I’m back to normal,” Q promised, obediently stilling regardless. He waited, patiently for Bond to put him down again. “There will be no safe place for you.

“You’re welcome for my looking after you, by the way,” Bond smirked.

Q just growled.

\---

Bond was true to his word; he wasn’t prepared to hack MI6 in his state, so he simply picked up Q, transferred him to the bedroom.

The man really, _really_ didn’t like flying. That became patently obvious when an airborne Q – en route to the bedroom, in Bond’s grip – literally had a panic attack. Six inches tall, hyperventilating, bursting into very inelegant tears when Bond put him down.

“You absolute _bastard_ , Bond,” Q snapped at him, once he’d calmed down a little, Bond watching him apologetically with no idea what to do. He couldn’t even offer a handkerchief; the thing would be better used as a blanket. Instead, Q used a corner of his toga effort, cursing at Bond in a variety of inventive languages before deciding to settle down again, his glare ferocious.

Bond had his hands up, universal surrender. “I thought it was just planes,” he said honestly. “Is it heights, or…?”

“It’s the idea of being fucking _in flight_ , you twat,” Q spat. “Not in control, potentially able to fall at any moment, and _die_. Dying is not necessarily high on my list of priorities, and I’m feeling a little bloody vulnerable given that I’m not exactly human size. You, deciding to transport me without a word of warning, was not _exactly_ ideal.”

Bond really did deserve Q shouting at him. It didn’t stop him picturing the shoebox in his wardrobe with a degree of malicious satisfaction.

Q settled cross-legged on a pillow, glaring up at Bond with the malevolent fury of an annoyed five-year-old. “Do you want to try… I don’t know, I think shaving is probably suicidal, but if you have innovative ideas for a toothbrush…”

Bond stopped, as Q rolled his eyes disparagingly. “Good god, Bond. Do you have mouthwash?” He waited for Bond to nod, before continuing: “And the shape of your toothpaste lid? Flip top, or screw?” Bond confirmed it was a screw top, to Q’s relief. “Excellent. Pour me some mouthwash into the tiny cap, I’ll use that for now. I’m hoping to not be miniature for much longer, and my teeth should survive one night.”

Bond was struck with the abrupt image of Q, shrunken and bearded and vaguely feral. It seemed worryingly plausible.

“Some time today would be just _excellent_ ,” Q drawled, watching Bond with a distinctly unimpressed expression.

Dear god, Q was a pain in the arse.

\---

_**AND BONUS** _ **_SHRUNK!BOND_...**

“Shit, _shit_. Bond?!”

Bond woke up feeling like somebody had clocked him very hard on the head. Everything felt just a bit weird; the sensations around his body were new and peculiar, although he did seem to have all his limbs, which was a start.

Q’s voice was _yelling_ at him, painfully loud. “Shh, Q,” Bond rasped, sighing expansively. “Too much. Hangover from hell.”

“Bond, you do _not_ have a hangover. For once. What do you remember?”

Bond tried sitting up; something heavy, ridiculously heavy, and warm was pressing on his chest. Okay, _definitely_ a hangover. He was rather worried about opening his eyes, if he was honest. “Q, I don’t remember anything. Wish I did though, it’d be nice to know what made me feel this shitty…”

“Bond, a little sense, if you would? Your last memory.”

Bond tried to scan his mind back. “Your office,” he supplied, and tried to open his eyes. He did _not_ like what he saw. “ _Fuck_.”

At first, he could just see whitish-pink, protruding from his chest. His eyes widened, head darting to either side as he realised that everything was a _lot_ larger than he expected them to be. Q pulled his hand away, letting Bond sit up slowly, trying to take in his surroundings.

“Q, why are you giant?!” Bond asked sharply, quickly assessing himself for further damage. “Where… oh fuck, oh _fuck_.”

“Well, you’re taking this well,” Q commented sarcastically, his voice disproportionately loud now Bond was… well. Unless he was very much mistaken, he was very, very small.

Bond shifted to standing. He was on Q’s desk, it seemed, on a pile of papers where each letter was about the size of his foot. “What, the _fuck_ , did you do?” he asked lethally.

Q had the good grace to look sheepish, which was absolutely bizarre on a face that large. “Shrunk you,” he admitted, running a slightly nervous hand through his hair. “I think I know how to reverse it…”

“You _think_?!” Bond asked, quietly, with more anger than Q knew was possible to be held in such a quiet tone. “Q, you _shrunk me_.”

Bond stared down at his limbs; everything was in proportion, blissfully. His suit was still perfectly tailored and elegant, his gun still intact. He tugged it out, in time to hear Q’s booming, thunderous-sounding laughter.

“Oh my _god_ , you have a toy gun,” Q snorted, barely containing himself. He saw Bond’s expression, and sobered slightly. “Yes, sorry. You becoming full size again. On it.”


	43. The Marvel fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well. Now that I know you're into the avengers, you should totally write something where Q is temporarily reassigned to help SHIELD/Stark Industries weapons development in hopes of creating a decent weapon against Jotuns/Chitauri/Asgardians/Teletubbies/what have you, so that the earth isn't quite so vulnerable to intergalactic warfare. I'm basically requesting science bros, with Q as one of the bros. Bonus points if you can find a way to include Bond and Fury trying to intimidate each other. - virtualoutcast

“…Yes, but these conduits are misaligned,” Q said sharply, indicating said faulty conduits with a somewhat disparaging wave. “If you would like to be in any sense far-reaching, or indeed remain intact, you will need the magnetic field impenetrable.”

“And remind people to leave anything electronic in another room,” Tony Stark commented sarcastically; he couldn’t understand the viability of Q’s explanation of a magnetic field, when it stood a chance of ripping anything metal in the vicinity to shreds.

Q rolled his eyes. “Idiot,” he commented, ignoring Stark’s expression, and wail of indignation. “Reverse the polarity, you’ll have the strength focused entirely inwards. That’s possible, if you can use the electric wands Mr Banner was working on.”

“It’s still Bruce,” Bruce said lightly; he was sat against the wall, watching the formidable sight of Tony Stark being mentally outmanoeuvred. Bruce managed it himself on a regular basis, but had yet to see it happen from an external perspective. He was finding it thoroughly enjoyable.

Tony was torn between anger and excitement; the kid was half his age, bespectacled and geeky, and stupidly intelligent. The excitement of meeting a kindred spirit caused inadvertent grins, as Q undercut his arguments with abrasive sarcasm. He was a little defensive, but Tony could understand that.

Q tinkered about with the small sub-part of machinery lying on Tony’s desk; Bruce’s eyes widened slightly. There was only so far anybody should push Tony, and playing with his gadgets was a step too far. “Kid, put that down before you break it,” Tony told him; he felt remarkably old around Q, so resorted to being patronising while he grasped for some way of dealing with him.

Two gunshots. Q’s head turned to the sound of the noise, eyebrow arching. “That’s one of mine,” he said, almost wearily. He dropped Tony’s device with _far_ less reverence than Tony would have liked, and belted towards the source of the noise – probably the shooting range, located unhelpfully at the end of the corridor.

The curiosity was killing him. Tony – swiftly followed by a very amused Bruce – ran after Q.

“James, what are you _doing?_ ” Q exclaimed; Tony and Bruce crowded into the doorway, to see Director Fury, and another man, with handguns extended.

“You have a Stark revolver?” Tony commented to Fury; the Director whipped around with said gun, causing Tony to instinctively duck out of the way.

“Stark, what are we paying you for, if this kid can make a better gun than you?” Fury asked, with his usual brand of sarcasm. Tony opened his mouth; Q interrupted him by reaching to Q’s hand, plucking out the Stark revolver.

He pointed it at the other end of the room, fired twice. Perfect hits through the chest and head. “Needs recalibration,” he said simply, handing it back to Fury. “Otherwise a brilliant piece of tech, mine were based off the Stark models.”

Tony puffed like a robin at the compliment, before abruptly wondering quite _how_ a kid barely out of teens had managed to make him so smug. It was all the wrong way around. “Shouldn’t you be working?” the other man asked Q, his smile genial, with an edge of steel.

“Trying to get rid of me?” Q smirked, dropping a quick kiss onto the man’s lips. “I’ll be back late.”

“I like you,” Tony drawled at Q, as the young man headed to the door, indicating imperiously back their workroom. Q looked Tony up and down, smirked, shrugged.

Fury rolled his eyes as Q, Tony and Bruce left. Superb. Now there were _three_ of them.

\---

“Tell me about the gorgeous blonde. _Hell_ yes, I’d have myself a piece of that,” Tony mocked, for the eightieth time in the past ten minutes; Q  took a breath, raised an eyebrow, fired a single shot from the gun he was holding about an inch above Tony’s head.

“Hmm,” he muttered to himself. “Still dodgy calibration, I was aiming _for_ your head.”

“Charming,” Tony snorted, trying to regain the composure he’d lost in ducking for cover like a scared child the moment Q had point the thing anywhere near him. Q had been lost in the inner workings of a Stark revolver for the best part of the last forty-five minutes.

Bruce extended a hand to Q, asking for the revolver; Q handed it over without question. Bruce took a few looks at it, held it beneath a portable scanner – noting Q’s fascination with the scanner with some amusement – and tinkered once more the main barrel alignment.

He handed it back to Q, who looked almost disappointed. Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I try to make a habit of not shooting my friends,” he explained lightly, before levelling a rather significant glance at Tony. “Even those who are being unreasonable.”

“The kid tried to shoot me!” Tony protested, gesticulating at air as he always seemed to do when making an ineffectual point.

Q stared flatly at him. “If they ask, I was provoked,” he said, smirking, and fired another shot.

Tony hit the floor, the bullet hit the wall, precisely where Q had aiming - about a millimetre above Tony’s head. “Superb,” he said with an appreciative nod to Bruce. “An elegant piece of technology. You are a loss to the weapons manufacturing industry,” he continued, a deliberate jibe at Tony, who – in a remarkably demonstration of self-control – didn’t rise to the bait.

“We do have a job, guys,” Tony reminded them; all three seemed somewhat surprised by that concept. Time passed differently in the SHIELD workshops. They still had _ages_ to construct this new prototype.

Bond swung open the door. “Fury wants the blueprints on his desk in two hours time. He’s told me to tell you two,” he continued, looking at Tony and Bruce, “to not bully the British kid. I’m here in person, to tell you, Q, to not bully _them_.”

“As if I would,” Q smiled, with his best ‘innocent’ expression; Bond returned a very unimpressed glance, and retreated.

“He really is…”

They never found out. Q shot behind him, didn’t actually look, went by sound. The bullet went a long way wide, impacting a rather important component part of a miniaturised JARVIS. The AI in question wheezed, and died.

As far as Tony was concerned, Q had murdered a member of the family. Q thought Stark was psychotic. Bruce thought he’d found the two craziest people in the Northern Hemisphere, and had been locked in a room with them.

All three were more or less correct.

Everything only calmed down when Fury yelled at them. Then they started bitching on a common theme. It was like dealing with a collection of hyper-intelligent children, as far as Fury was concerned.

“Adolescents, actually,” Tony grouched, and continued working while Q smirked. Bruce, in the background, just got work done, far more efficiently than the two children bickering on the sidelines.

\---

“Guys, we have a problem,” Tony drawled; Q ignored him, Bruce looking up sharply. Tony only ever used that _particular_ tone when things really _were_ wrong. Bruce dropped what he was doing, looking over the same computer as Tony, Q raising an eyebrow, continuing to work, a minute screwdriver delving into a tiny component of a type of gun, tongue trapped between his teeth. “ _Loki_.”

Q’s forehead crunched with confusion. “As in…”

“God of chaos and lying, and not our friend,” Tony said quickly, pressing a button on the bracelet, tight around his wrist; Q ducked, as sheets of iron unfolded from nowhere, attaching itself with practised ease to Tony’s body.

Q nodded appreciatively. “I did wonder what it looked like in practise,” Q said lightly. “Good workmanship. I need one of those.”

“Genuinely not the worst idea you’ve had,” Tony pointed out, glancing at Bruce; Bruce had turned an odd shade of green, Q beginning to feel a sense of rising panic as he noticed. Shit. _Shit_.

The door slammed open.

“Q, over here,” Bond said urgently; Q understood in a heartbeat that there was something exceptionally wrong indeed, beyond what he apparently understood. “Loki found Fury. We have a direct threat issued against the three of you, for what you’re doing here – Stark and Banner can defend themselves, you, on the other hand…”

“Hey kid,” Stark interrupted; Q turned, in time to catch a second set of bracelets. “Suit up. You’ll need it.”

“We don’t have time to argue,” Bond snapped, hands closing around his young lover, Q’s expression tight and worried. He felt ridiculously fragile, compared to Iron Man, the Hulk, and James Bond. Really, he didn’t stand a chance.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Then don’t argue,” he said obnoxiously, and closed his visor.

 Q had read the files on Loki. He wouldn’t kill unless he deemed it necessary; if he had already deemed Q a threat, however, his life was already forfeit. Bond would need to protect himself, given that Q was comparatively vulnerable in the Avengers.

“We need you out,” called a female voice; Q recognised the Black Widow, Natasha. She had been dispassionate about Q’s involvement, but was loyal to her employers; if she was there, it also meant the Hawk was somewhere about.

Q glanced at Bond. “This is more serious than we anticipated, isn’t it?” he asked quietly. Bond nodded, hands on Q’s shoulders, eyes betraying flickers of fear that didn’t suit Bond in the slightest.

The bracelets were disconcertingly heavy around his wrist, as he pressed the button. Bond stepped out of the way, as iron tacked around Q’s limbs, covering him in dark metal, uncoloured, unidentifiable. He was protected, at least a little.

Q locked down the computers, guarding every prototype from anybody, god or not. Bruce was equally prepared; he smashed a disproportionately strong fist into the prototypes they’d been working on, keeping them from Loki. The technology was enough to destroy Chitauri, more efficient weaponry for this strange new world they were falling quickly into. Natasha joined Bond, the pair cradling weapons like babies.

“Where’s Cap?”

Tony barely had the words out, before a man dressed head-to-toe in spandex appeared out of nowhere. Q blinked. This was just _bizarre_.

“The human children rally,” intoned a calm, quiet voice. “How… _endearing_.”

Everything stopped, very abruptly. Q looked up; the man was tall, black-haired, strung out in a way that spoke of an eternity of exhaustion, fathomless pain.

This would end badly.

\---

Q had never been more grateful in his _life_ for being literally encased in a suit of armour. It was ridiculous, and he had no clue how to use it, but he looked like likely to imminently die which he figured was probably a good thing.

“Hey bambi, how you doin’?” Tony drawled, watching Loki carefully; Loki, in turn, had his eyes fixed on Q.

Q stayed a little back, using the various features around the suit to keep a fair idea of where everybody was in relation to him. Bond held a protective stance in front of him, gun in hand. “You must be the one they call ‘Q’,” Loki sighed, eyes piercingly bright, staring at Q through the visor.

Bond shifted, as did Tony, and the man Q knew to be Captain America. “We’re fond of the kid, proper Brit on the scene,” Tony filled it, trying to deflect attention back onto himself. “You have the accent buddy, but this guy’s the real McCoy, tea and everything, not even kidding.”

“Mortal interests do not concern me,” Loki said softly, his body an exercise in tension.

Torture was something Bond knew too well. He knew the kind of pain that lived in the body long after the wounds had technically healed. Loki’s stance was elegant, refined, but had a bend to it of something far more sinister. Bond wondered, quietly, what had happened to him after returning to Asgard.

Loki tilted his head to one side. “You know what I’m here for,” he said simply. “Give it to me, and I will not harm you.”

“You know that isn’t going to happen,” Captain America replied, all bravado and easy words. Loki didn’t even grace him with a cursory glance, the air next to him shimmering as a large staff fazed into being.

His hand closed around it, while Tony, Steve and Natasha closed ranks. Bruce was staying human with tangible difficulty, and – judging by the way Loki continued to glance at him – was the only one of the collection that Loki truly feared.

Loki’s skin turned faintly luminescent for a fractional moment, energy practically humming off him. “God _damn it_ ,” Tony swore, his own hands glowing as he moved into flight; he found it easier to aim, personal preference, not to mention it looked cooler.

“I can feel your fear,” Loki purred, still directing attention towards Q; Q shifted his head back intentionally, the AI interpreting it, the visor sliding back.

Q smiled at him slightly, a touch of arrogance that Stark himself would have been proud of. “I’m not even faintly afraid of you,” he said simply. “I also have absolutely no intention of releasing our current weapons plans, and neither do any of my colleagues.”

“Go home to daddy,” Tony smirked.

Wrong thing to say. Very, very much the wrong thing to say.

Loki gave a low snarl, eyes suddenly alight, utterly _blazing_.

He blew a hole in the wall with his spear, throwing blasts at everybody in the vicinity before gunning directly for Q; the man was obviously the weakest of the collection, most likely to fold under pressure.

Bruce Hulked out with a deafening roar, immediately going for Loki; Loki ducked out of the range of his massive fists, grabbing the young man by the throat and continuing on a sharp trajectory out of the building. Bond tried to fire, swearing as he failed to get a clear shot; he ran after them in tandem with Natasha, Hawkeye’s arrows raining around them, Tony flying overhead and the Hulk blowing out windows with the strength of his anger.

Bond was picked up by the scruff of his neck by Tony, the man helping him gain speed (and getting him the hell out of the Hulk’s way) as they all pursued Loki, and an armoured, rather alarmed-looking Q.

\---

“Stop. Seriously, I _hate_ this, put me down. _Put me down_. Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake. _Mother_ , put me down,” Q yelled, the visor still up; Loki skidded to an abrupt halt, Q all but flying out of his grasp, scooting across the floor. “ _Thank_ you.”

Loki leaned down, wrenching the iron helmet off Q’s head; he blinked in the abrupt influx of light, raising an eyebrow at his father. “My child,” Loki breathed, looking over Q with simple shock. “You are the being they call Q?”

“Q is my name, now,” Q said firmly. “Don’t call me anything else. What are you doing here, anyway? You know nobody will give you anything. You broke half of New York! They made me _take a plane_.”

Loki snarled. “You fear it,” he growled, low and furious. “I shall…”

“You shall do nothing,” Q said firmly. “I’m fine, they are fine. I’m in love with one of them, and will be exceptionally upset if you hurt him. Now. What happened in Asgard?”

All at once, Loki seemed to slump. “Mummy?” Q asked, a lot softer, voice very gentle. “What did he do?”

Odin had always been the darkness at the edge of Loki’s life, of Q’s. Q had barely known his mother, due to Odin Allfather, due to Heimdall; Q had been stripped of a family, because of Odin’s cruelty, the darkness of perceived misdemeanours clouding everything.

“A relatively simple round of torture,” Loki murmured, very simply. “Not content with taking my children, he insisted on taking my voice. He sewed my lips together.”

Q felt genuinely, honestly nauseous. “Jesus,” Q murmured. “He… mother, you cannot take it out on this world, _my_ world. Please. Take refuge here, let us help you. I’ll help you, I know how.”

A series of gunshots, arrows sailing near Loki’s head; he became near enough incandescent again, and Q shrieked “ _hold your fire_ ” at the top of his lungs, and prayed somebody would listen. “It’s safe, he means no harm. _Do not shoot_.”

“Getting you loud and clear, kid, stop yelling,” Tony drawled, landing next to them, lifting his visor, dumping a ruffled Bond while the Hulk yelled out the world next to him. “Come on now, guys and dolls…”

“Are you alright?” Bond asked sharply; Q raised a placatory hand, nodding.

This was going to be a bitch to explain.

\---

Bond slid forward, extending a hand to Q; he raised an eyebrow eloquently, shaking his head. “Really, it’s alright,” he murmured, sighing a little. “I didn’t want to mention it before, I know this will not go down well.”

“You know each other,” Steve noted, looking between them; Q’s expression wrinkled a little, while Loki shifted behind him. Protective, but still a little bit frightening to be in such close proximity to, and Q hadn’t seen Loki in a while so it was, altogether, surreal.

Loki spoke first. “This being that you have named Q…”

“Q is my name,” Q said irritably, glancing around at his mother, back to Bond. “Okay, so. There are no records of my childhood, my life, that exist. All of them are falsified, because I did not grow up on earth. I’m also not twenty-six, and there’s a reason somebody of my age is quite so adept with technology, and alien species…”

Bond’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you aren’t twenty-six?” he asked slowly, coldly.

“Please, James,” Q asked softly. “Loki… Loki is my mother.”

The reaction was relatively predictable; the Hulk bellowed, Steve and Natasha managed near-unison exhales of _what?_ , Bond froze entirely, and Tony let out a long whistle of sheer disbelief. “You need to explain,” Bond growled.

“I am part-Jotun. I grew up in exile on a different plane of existence, before asking to relocate to Earth, to live; I couldn’t stay in exile, I was going insane,” he explained. Tried to explain. “I integrated into Earth, falsified a life, and that was it. I haven’t seen mummy in a long while, our timelines work differently now, and it’s okay – he won’t hurt anybody. We need to give him shelter here, on Earth.”

Everybody stared with blank, incoherent disbelief. “Can we check if he’s been hit with the glowstick?” Hawkeye intoned, in everybody’s ear. “This shit’s too weird.”

Q rolled his eyes, concentrated, brain trying to instate; at which point, his skin turned pale blue. “ _Fuck_ ,” Tony said fluidly; Q, meanwhile, phased back into a human colour.

Bond was still. Completely, utterly, catatonically still.

“James?” Q asked tremulously, reaching forward; Loki, meanwhile, all but _snarled_ at the other Avengers. Bond shook his head, taking a half-step back; not now. He could not deal with any of it just at that moment, and Q felt a little something in him shatter.

Loki picked up on it, of course, in precise unison with Steve taking an angry step forward to join Tony. Loki twisted on Bond. “You, human, are distressing my child…”

“… we are not _helping_ the bastard who trashed my house…”

“ _All of you_ , stop,” Q snapped, glancing around; one hand held up kept the Avengers back, the other reached out to his mother. “Mummy, James is fine, leave him alone. The rest of you, he needs our help. He was tortured, on Asgard, there’s nowhere for him to go.”

“Torture?” Tony asked, voice a little sharper; he, beyond anybody but Bond, knew what that meant.

Loki, in all his regal arrogance, nodded slowly.

From that point, tension dribbled back. The Avengers talked, everybody talked, and the sounds bubbled over the top of everything, drowning him. “Please, James,” Q pleaded, looking over his partner.

“You lied to me,” Bond intoned, inaudible to all but Q as the Avengers interrogated Loki, Q keeping merely half an eye on him. “You _lied_ , Q.”

“I’m sorry,” Q murmured; Bond looked at him, blinked a handful of time – and left. “James. _James_.”

Loki glanced between them, raised an eyebrow, looked back at the Avengers.

It was only beginning.


	44. The Bunny/Tiger fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it ok if you write a fic about bunny!Q and tiger!bond? :) - anon

The bunny wrinkled his nose slightly, nose in the air; his tiny, black eyes swivelled, sensing a danger without being quite aware of where it was. He twitched, lolloping to the base of a tree, hiding behind the lower roots.

Tigers were a constant threat to smaller creatures; the bunny, who enigmatically called himself Q, in his head, watched the creature prowl in front of him, tail flicking dangerously.

Q’s breath caught slightly, nose wrinkling, whiskers vibrating a little.The tiger stalked around the thin clearing, Q trying to remain as still as he could; the tiger, stripes patterned in a distinct _007_ patterning, barely perceptible. Q brushed a paw over his nose, the feline smell frighteningly close.

007 stalked over towards Q’s tree; Q had very few options. He couldn’t try to take on a tiger. He froze instead, wondering if paralysis would make him invisible.

The tiger leaned over him, growled. Q’s widened, second-guessing himself, wondering if bolting now, as fast as he could, would even _work_.

A paw reached out; Q darted to one side in a series of quick hops. 007 looked confused for the briefest of seconds, before trying again. Q darted once again, feeling rather pleased with himself.

007 growled, and Q hopped, bopping him on the nose with his head. Q stilled a moment, trying to anticipate 007’s next move; he would have felt smug, were it not for the imminent threat of his own death.

Q’s nose twitched.

007 rolled his eyes, the growl turning begrudgingly respectful. Q preened his whiskers slightly, wondering what precisely was going to happen now; to his surprise, 007 batted him closer, long feline body half-wrapped around a rather small bunny.

This was rather unprecedented, Q mused. At least he wasn’t dead. He experimentally hopped to the opening of 007’s circled body; a flicked tail indicated that he was to stay within the perimeter.

Still no signs of 007 wanting to eat him, and he was now guarded on all fronts. Really, this was turning into quite a successful day. 007 rested his large head on his paws, watching Q carefully; Q’s nose twitched again, and he settled himself down.

It looked like he was there to stay.

\---

Q woke up, feeling faintly disgruntled, and relatively confused.

In fairness to Q, it wasn’t every day that one woke up in the safe perimeter of a tiger’s body, with the tiger in question showing absolutely no interest in having the bunny for lunch.

Q blinked. He was hungry. Definitely hungry.

007 – as Q now thought of the tiger – was very much asleep. Snoring slightly, in fact, the tip of his tail flicking as he dreamt.

There was argument to be made that poking a sleeping tiger was probably a very, very stupid thing to do. Bordering on suicidal, in fact. But Q was hungry, and 007 was asleep, and he didn’t see that he had many options.

So Q, the most suicidal bunny in history, nudged the unconscious tiger.

007 woke up with a large, expansive yawn; his spine rippled, uncurling for a moment as he stretched out with eyes still shut.

He heard the noise a couple of inches away. Finishing yawning, he resettled in a more comfortable position to see the bunny from the previous day; the bunny was utterly paralysed, staring at 007 in mute terror.

It took a moment or two for 007 to realise the bunny had been spooked by the yawn. Not wholly unreasonably, given that 007’s jaw opened to create a cavity wide enough to comfortably fit two bunnies of Q’s size.

Q remained utterly still, as though if he did so, 007 would magically lose sight of the dark-furred rabbit sitting a foot in front of him. He managed the feline equivalent of an eye roll, before leaning in to scoop up the frozen bunny into a slack-jawed grip, padding away from where he’d been sleeping.

Meanwhile, Q’s short and uninspiring life flashed through his head, the tiger’s jaw closing around him. His only regret was that he’d only ever had strawberries once. He really liked strawberries.

His shock was palpable when 007 placed him tenderly in the middle of a patch of vegetation, with no harm done to him whatsoever. Q had no idea how he’d managed it, but the tiger seemed to really, really like him.

Honestly, he was too hungry to be picky. He lolloped to a shrub, started gnawing on the leaves; 007 shifted behind him, body tense as he sought out prey, leaving the bunny to eat.

Q wasn’t altogether surprised when a slightly bloodstained 007 returned to his side a little while later, look vaguely smug.

\---

Q had become rather used to 007. The tiger was persistently showing no interest in hurting him in any way at all, and was very usefully depositing him in patches of grass and shrub and all of Q’s favourite things to eat, and didn’t seem to mind.

007 was a funny thing. Q would lollop next to him, as the tiger stalked through the woods, scaring off potential predators; Q had never been so safe in his life, and he liked it a _lot_.

It was getting to the stage where Q was almost never afraid. He nuzzled into the tiger’s side, 007’s tail flicking eloquently, napping contentedly with a tiger wrapped around him for protection.

007 did have a nasty habit of carrying Q around his mouth, which was problematic on several levels. Firstly, that a single hesitation, and 007 would kill him so fast the little bunny would never know a thing. Secondly, Q took one look at the ground so far away, hovering in the air, and was once again frozen with terror.

But, there was no way in hell Q was going to struggle while in the jaws of a tiger, and it was quite difficult to communicate anything coherent when he was a bunny and 007 was a tiger who seemed to like him for no good reason whatsoever.

So Q closed his eyes, panicked, and 007 placed him back on the ground so impossibly gently.

Q opened his eyes, glanced at Bond, the tiger staring at him steadily. He looked to the strawberries emphatically, and back to Q.

For Q. The strawberries were for Q. How 007 knew, Q had no idea, but they were the one thing Q would do anything for and 007 had found them and Q could never make it up to him, but damn it, he was going to have those strawberries and enjoy those strawberries.

Q nibbled on the edge of said strawberry, shuffling closer, trying as much as he could as quickly as he could.

007 cocked his head to one side in outright approval, nudging Q with his nose, keeping the bunny deep in the strawberry patch. It occurred, in passing, that 007 was just trying to fatten him up – but honestly, 007 just looked happy that Q was happy.

Q stayed for ages, until 007 opened his mouth, plucking the bunny out of the strawberry patch and padding a few steps away. Q – paralysed the moment he became airborne – looked at the tiger with confusion and faint upset. He _liked_ strawberries. He felt a little bit ill with how many he’d eaten, but still.

007 all but rolled his eyes, curling his body around the bunny, falling asleep almost immediately and trapping Q inside. Q, feeling mildly aggrieved, with a strawberry patch _just there_ , sulked for a bit before finally getting some sleep.

When he woke in the morning, 007 had gone, presumably on a hunt.

And, of course, the strawberries were all still there.

\---

Q crinkled his nose, waking up gradually.

He wasn’t as warm as usual, which was sad. Usually, 007 was wrapped around him, comfortable and friendly and hugely protective. Nothing harmed Q, ever.

Except that now, he was waking up with the sensation that something was wrong. Something was moving in the undergrowth, sliding towards him, closer and closer with the indisputable potential to cause harm.

A snake, Q realised, with paralysing terror.

He did the only thing he could think of: freezing in place, and hoping that made him unnoticeable. His heartbeat was hammering in his chest, fur slightly on edge, eyes wide and still and ears very faintly twitching as the rustling, sliding came ever close.

Q saw it, and couldn’t stop staring.

Abruptly, there was an explosion of motion and noise; Q reeled, as 007  _pounced_ forward onto the snake. There was a small tussle, before Q saw a spatter of blood.

He made a little noise, horrified at the thought of 007 being hurt, his protective tiger being poisoned or bitten or injured…

The snake’s head was no long on its body.

007’s expression, as he fixed on Q, was mildly weary. Q could have almost  _sworn_  he shook his head, as though Q was an errant bunny who had  _deliberately_  got himself in trouble and nearly been  _eaten by a snake_.

The tiger’s tongue licked the top of his head, cleaning down his spine; Q allowed it. 007 had earned it, after all; he was still alive which  _really_ , was quite impressive and a little bit unexpected. Q had always known that snakes  _would_  eat him, given half the chance.

But then, he had thought the same of tigers, once.

007 settled down heavily, nudging Q back into the protective circle of his body.

Q just nuzzled in, and relaxed.


	45. The Seraph/Caretaker fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing-fic AU: For every Seraph born a Caretaker is born for them. Seraph’s need a Caretaker because once they are fully grown they can’t reach the entirety of their wings. They can’t hire someone to do it for them because it’s considered the most intimate act. Bond has been refused missions until he finds his Caretaker as his wings have grown so ragged that it’s severely hampered his missions. How he finds Q is up to you but I don’t want him working for MI6. - anon

Bond was absolutely _livid_.

He had essentially been suspended from active duty, for no good reason other than his wings. Being a Seraph had many good points – not to mention the near-immortality and flight capabilities – but Bond was now reaching an age where he should have long-since found his Caretaker.

The wings were unmanageable. While Bond was more than able to handle the feathers closest to him, his wingspan was a considerable degree larger than he could reach; he was having difficulty becoming airborne, these days.

M had sent him to find his damned Caretaker. That promised to be interesting; Bond had no _idea_ where to start looking, out of the several billion people around the world who _could_ be it. True, it was understood that Caretakers were born in places that their Seraphs would easily find them, but Bond travelled worldwide; it was more than possible that he’d already missed his Caretaker. Or they’d died.

When he finally saw the kid, he didn’t want to believe it, and almost missed it.

The boy had to be in his late teens, at best. Anaemic-looking, dark-haired, messenger bag slung over his shoulder and thick-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose; Bond wouldn’t have even noticed him, if he hadn’t been staring.

“Yes?” Bond asked, rather sarcastically.

The boy blinked at him. “I can see your wings,” he said clearly, flatly. It was almost a challenge. “I’m assuming that is rather significant, given that they’re intangible, and you probably retract them in public.”

“Oh, excellent,” Bond snapped, raising an eyebrow. Just _superb_. “You’re…”

“Your caretaker, it would seem,” the boy said, with a vague expression of contempt for the whole proceedings.

This… ridiculous, skinny, intellectual-looking boy was his _Caretaker_. It was the only explanation; no Seraphs flaunted their wings on a daily basis, it was asking for trouble. Bond had his retracted, as the boy had suspected – and yet, the boy could see them. His eyes glanced over the full contours curiously.

“What’s your name?” Bond asked roughly, the boy’s attention moving back to his face.

He smiled slightly, eyes dark, curious. “Q. And you?”

Bond raised an eyebrow, extended a hand. “Bond. James Bond.”

\---

Bond, naturally, took the boy home with him. He seemed less than delighted by that fact, but he only had a dingy bedsit to go back to, and he had found his Seraph so _really_ , he had something of a duty.

“Dare I ask which branch of the secret service you subscribe to?” Q asked drily, glancing around the wholly anaesthetised flat. There literally wasn’t a single personalised aspect in the entire area; that, the gun Q could see the contours of in Bond’s interior jacket pocket, and the truly atrocious state of his wings, were relatively indicative of a secret service career.

Bond didn’t even blink. If the upstart kid had worked it out, good on him. “MI6,” he replied easily.

Q dumped his bag by the side of the sofa, while Bond attempted to be polite, and make some tea for his new guest. “Please, just let me deal with them?” he said tiredly, gesturing at Bond’s wings. “It’s making me feel a little ill to look.”

Good god, but the kid was annoying. Bond felt a little teenage himself, as he flounced to the sofa, petulantly shrugging off his shirt before realising his wings entirely; they shot out in a haze of feathers, Bond feeling rather gratified as Q jumped.

The boy’s expression was both reverentially and mildly contemptuous, as Bond had somehow upset him. “You should have found me far sooner,” he chided gently, elegant fingers reaching for the soft feathers, gold and white and immensely bright, where they weren’t clogged. “It must be uncomfortable, by now.”

“How do you know what you’re doing?” Bond asked, his voice rough; Q’s fingers darted forward, a slight smile creeping into the corners of his mouth as he all but played with the different textures, the sharp spine of the larger ones against the downy cushioning of the small, fingers gliding through them.

Q shot him a look of faint contempt. “I knew I was a caregiver when I was eleven,” he explained, removing the larger clots with his fingers, eyes sad as he looked at the state of them. “I saw a Seraph, in full extension, and _knew_. It was just a case of finding the right one, the one I belonged to. Apparently, I didn’t need to wait long. For the record, I am more than capable of being your Caretaker, I know what I’m doing. You’re the moron sitting there with unkempt wings that should have been dealt with _years_ ago; you could have found me sooner.”

“Your parents wouldn’t have been pleasant,” Bond retorted sarcastically, earning a rather arrogant eyeroll from the boy picking clumps of feather and dirt out of his wings. “Ow, by the way.

“Not interested,” Q said, but his touches became gentler anyway. He knew where to target as points of pain or injury, didn’t ask about the old bullet he found encased in a shell of feathers, just dealt with everything. Q would became a part of Bond’s life now, would maintain and care for and become devoted to a part of Bond that could never be escaped, or denied.

Q’s breath caught slightly as he found a clot of blood, forehead contracting as though the pain was his own; he found a bowl and shampoo, started gently daubing, wordless; when Bond tried to speak, he raised an impatient hand, concentration wholly elsewhere.

Bond, to his tremendous irritation – and slight relief – was finding himself increasingly fond of the boy.

\---

Bond slammed into the flat after a two-week mission, making Q nearly fall off it in sheer shock; he hadn’t heard the key in the door, was too busy wrapped in his laptop, doing something that didn’t look overwhelmingly normal for a teenager to be doing on a laptop, alone in the house.

Q had moved in, obviously. He had always hated his bedsit, and Bond’s flat was near enough to the university buildings to still be convenient. To be honest, he was saving a good deal of money, living with Bond instead; his Seraph had a duty of care towards his Caretaker, who in turn devoted a good proportion of his life to Bond’s wings. A neat, reciprocal little relationship.

“What happened?” Q asked, looking truly anxious for the first time since they’d met; Bond snarled at him, shrugging off his jacket and shirt, letting his wings release in an abrupt spurt.

Q knew something bad had happened. He had known _as_ it happened. His link with Bond was growing exponentially, leaving him attuned to the state of his wings, even at a distance; they were matted and dirty and blood-soaked in places now, making Q’s body shudder.

“Fuck,” Q said, expression less vulnerable, hardening with irritation and anger. “Really, Bond?”

Bond leant on the back of the sofa, exhaling slowly as he breathed with his wings. “Yes, Q. Really,” he retorted. “It’s still James, by the way.”

“Stay where you are,” Q ordered, disappearing into the bathroom; he returned with another bowl, soap, a soft sponge, and a thin comb designed for wing care. Bond remained leant against the cabinet as Q made a disparaging noise, a little noise of horror and pain at the gouge in Bond’s right wing.

It was occasionally horrible, having Q look after him. Q literally _hurt_ , looking at Bond’s wings, trying to deal with them; it was an intrinsic part of him, the need to care for Bond as a Seraph, as a part of his life that would never leave. The congealed blood, the deep indents, they speared Q more than they did Bond.

Instinctively, Bond protected his wings better. He didn’t want to see Q’s pain, the almost-concealed hurt, masked by contemptuous disappointment at Bond’s clear inadequacies.

“They will not survive everything,” Q reminded him curtly, his tears of anger or pain or both or neither. “I can’t be fucking _magic_. Try and treat them like you would any other limb, hmm?”

“He says, to the man with a bullet hole in his right shoulder,” Bond quipped, and Q shot him a look of pure poison. “Sorry,” Bond added begrudgingly.

Q’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, jaw tight with anger. “I will never understand why somebody like _you_ wound up being a Seraph, but kindly try and remember that _I_ am linked to you, now,” Q told him, in a low, livid tone, his young features contorted with fury. “I don’t care if you like them or hate them or are just too fucking lazy to take the slightest care – try and think of _somebody_ else, for a change, and don’t fuck them up.”

Bond actually looked chastened, for a brief moment. “What happens to Caretakers, when their Seraphs die?” he asked gently; he realised he didn’t know. Nobody did. Attention was always on the Seraphs, not their other halves.

Q shot him a quick look, sad and worried. “It becomes… difficult,” he managed, forehead contracting. “I… I’ve heard, I’ve read… it’s like losing a limb, losing a part of yourself. Not to mention that Seraphs and Caretakers are close spiritually, so there is an inherent loss of a soulmate… many Caretakers find it difficult to survive,” he murmured, voice fading out a little.

It was almost impossible to imagine how it would feel, to be linked with somebody so unstable, somebody in such a dangerous job, somebody so unlikely to remain safe. Q was steady, dependable; Bond tried to imagine losing him, was rendered speechless by the pain in that thought.

He figured Q must feel the same, and so couldn’t help but feel a wave of sympathy for the boy. Q faced the consistent, continual possibility of losing his soulmate and Seraph, and Bond hadn’t begun to realise how horrific that was.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, as dirt and blood stained the bowl of water a dusky pink.

Q nodded, raised an eyebrow at him, and continued to tend to Bond’s wings.

\---

Q looked at Bond, curled on their sofa, immensely pale and all but shaking himself off the bed. “How bad is it?” he asked tremulously, glancing over Bond. “Show me. Please. I need to know. I could… I could feel it, whatever happened, and I…”

Bond moved quickly to his Caretaker, strong arms reaching out comfortingly; Q keened a little, trying to see the wings, trying to know, elegant fingers pawing at the nubs on James’s back where they would protrude out.

Gently, very gently, Bond unfolded his wings.

Q started shaking.

“James, what the _fuck_ happened?” he breathed, the tips of his fingers dancing over the broken feathers, clotted blood and dirt and stains. “They targeted the wings, didn’t they? Whoever they were…”

Bond was becoming rapidly aware that his Caretaker was not honestly in control. He looked exhausted, the dark shadows of one who had not slept in a long while, and his voice was too-quick and frantic and desperate. “Q, please calm down,” Bond said soothingly. “It’ll be…”

“It hurts,” Q whimpered, curling in on himself, trying to reach for the wings and heal, the instinct to heal, against the pain thrumming through his body. “When you hurt, when _they_ hurt like that, it… James, I don’t know what to do.”

Q watched the wings with his eyes glistening horribly, and Bond felt a horrendous stab of guilt. “Help me sort them out,” he said, tone very measured. “I can’t do it alone, and it won’t stop hurting until they’re more intact.”

Impressively, Q was already prepared; the feather combs, sponges, water all ready for use. He cried expressionlessly as he tended to Bond’s wings, forehead knotted in something like anger; it wasn’t _fair_ , being so intrinsically linked to somebody who could cause him this much pain.

Bond kissed his softly on the forehead, when Q shifted back a little. He didn’t expect his young Caretaker to collapse into heartbreaking, gentle sobs. “Please be more careful,” he pleaded softly. “Please.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Bond promised quietly, scooping Q into his arms; he had never seen the boy so vulnerable, abandoning his acerbity and anger to just collapse a little. “I’m so sorry.”

Q just nodded, fingers playing with the intact feathers, and broke down in Bond’s arms.


	46. The Teenage Daughter fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO, I have this idea were Bond has a 15-years-old daughter (whom she loves dearly), but she lives with a foster family somewhere in the UK (they all know about James’ job, that’s why they agreed to take care of her). One day Bond takes Q to meet her and she becomes very attached to Q and fluff. I’d love you (even more) i you could write it… <3 - anon

Initially, Q and Becca hated one another on sight.

Q had been terrified of meeting the teenager; Bond had assured him she was quite harmless, but really, how could the child of two lethal secret agents, fluent in four languages and master of seven different martial arts forms, ever be harmless?

Her scepticism was born of Q’s age – he was barely a decade older than her – and his fabled intelligence. In retrospect, Bond had probably made too much of it; a life lesson there, never tell a teenager about somebody else’s capabilities if you wish to avoid a broken nose. Becca had grown jealous, defensive, and a mite petulant.

Q had regressed to a six-year-old temper tantrum by the end of the day; he broke his phone chucking it at a wall, before lying through his teeth to Bond. “She’s _lovely_ James, yes…” he said insincerely, unwilling to upset his boyfriend through the honest fact that he really, _really_ couldn’t stand her.

Blonde, tall, beautiful. Becca took after her father. Her mother had clearly been a demon in female form. Q added the ‘demon in female form’ argument to the tally chart of why he was gay, and staying gay for the foreseeable future. He also dimly regretted breaking his phone.

 On the fourth day of the horrendous exercise – four of seven, they had the full week off – he stood in the doorway of the living room, watching Becca fiddle with some aspect of her laptop.

Q had an Earl Grey clutched to his chest like a defensive weapon. He watched her struggle for a couple of minutes, before swallowing his pride, and bolstering his courage. “I can fix that, if you like?” he offered quietly, nodding at the laptop.

Becca, in true fifteen-year-old style, huffed slightly, gesturing expansively at the wreckage of crap that once was her laptop. Q placed his tea on the table, examining the laptop carefully; tugging a mini multitool out his pocket, he found a minute screwdriver attachment, and prised open the back.

She’d split something on it, at some stage, that much was obvious. Q just cleared the debris, leaving the circuits free to run as normal. Once the screen lit, he started typing; he cleared the data debris in addition, leaving the computer running at a better speed, with an addition tack-on to a secondary WIFI system that MI6 ran nationwide. In layman’s terms, she would never lose internet access.

Q felt a little rush of relief as she smiled, nodded her thanks. He had presented items to M with less anxiety.

“Why do I get the impression you two are going to make my life hell?” Bond teased later, Q curled up against his chest, tentatively admitting that while he hadn’t initially warmed to her, she seemed-quite-nice-really-once-you-started-talking-to-her.

Q snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Give it time,” Bond said with a long-suffering sigh. Becca and Q hadn’t got on because they were both too similar, in some respects; childish, a little bit arrogant, too clever for their own good, and territorial. To be quite frank, Bond was mostly delighted they hadn’t killed one another quite yet.

The idea of them joining forces was honestly, truly terrifying.

\---

Becca was staying for a fortnight, ostensibly to bond with her erstwhile father and his new partner; Bond hadn’t spent a prolonged period of time with Becca in a handful of years due to MI6 commitments, and really, had missed out on a lot of her life.

Sod’s law dictated that he was called off an urgent mission. Only a handful of days, but it did mean leaving Q and Becca in the same space – which honestly, he wasn’t wholly convinced was a good thing.  He had a personal sweepstake running of who would kill whom; a small, sadistic part of him was rather looking forward to seeing who would be left standing at the end of it.

He pushed open the door after being gone for five days, hit with smell of pizza, and assaulted by the now-familiar sounds of Q barking answers at University Challenge as though it was a matter of life and death. “Beryllium,” he said through a mouthful of pizza, King’s College, Cambridge trouncing UCL onscreen.

“Boron, actually,” Becca corrected; Bond barely repressed a smirk, as Becca was proven right. She was scarily knowledgeable for her age, a fact that made Bond swell with pride.

Neither of them had so much as looked up, when Bond walked in. “Honey, I’m home,” Bond said, in a tone laden with sarcasm; Q glanced him, a smile splitting the corner of his mouth as he reached out to Bond. Bond walked to him, letting Q pull into a kiss while Becca watched with vague amusement. “How’re you both doing?”

Q glanced at Becca, whose hands were curled around a glass of wine. “Excellent, thank you,” Q said, sounding almost cocky about that fact. Becca similarly shrugged, glancing at her father with a slight hint of smugness.

“You’re drinking,” Bond stated at Becca, raising at eyebrow at Q; Q glanced away, reaching for another slice of pizza while Becca picked the topping off her own, not seemed particularly contrite. “Becca…”

“In France, levels of alcoholism are very low,” Q mused aloud, chewing his pizza inelegantly. “In other news, the French are pretty much horizontal in their drinking laws, and children drink with their parents from a very young age.”

Bond shot Q a black look that promised a further conversation, while Becca smirked behind her glass. She and Q glanced at one another, making eye contact.

To Bond’s utter confusion, the pair broke out in absolutely unison laughter, with no apparently provocation. He glanced between them, faintly alarmed, eventually managing a series of dark curses as he realised that his partner, and daughter, were quite definitely on the same side.


	47. The Interrogation fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good morning! I was wondering if you might be interested in doing a story where they find out there’s a mole in MI6 and something leads them to believe that is has to be Q, him being new at his post and all. I’d rather it wasn’t in fact Q, in the end :) I’d love to read a oneshot, but if you happened to make several parts, I wouldn’t complain! If you’re interested at all, of course :) Let me end by saying I really really enjoy your writing (even the Omegaverse, which I usually can’t read). - whatifimacrowdeddesert

M was having a meeting with some very high level members of MI6; Bond had seen him briefly, expression closed in with worry, nodding at Bond. “Wait there,” he’d said curtly, and left Bond to his own devices while he closed his doors to speak with the various suited men.

Afterwards, Bond was beckoned forward into M’s office, the door closed behind him. Bond waited, raising an eyebrow. “We have reason to believe that Q is a mole,” M said simply.

Bond had to sit down.

-

They extracted Q from Q-branch, threw him into an interrogation cell. Bond didn’t merely volunteer, but _demanded_ to be involved in the interrogation itself; he needed to understand for himself, and the information coming to him by proxy was simply insufficient.

There was no doubt, extensive evidence.

For Queen and Country. Queen and _fucking_ Country. Bond had his priorities, and they had always been with his nation. He had devoted his life to England years ago; he couldn’t allow himself to care.

He sat down opposite Q, expression stony. Q had ankles and wrists shackled, dressed in a loose, grey tracksuit; he looked very young, disconcertingly fragile, but mostly just confused. “James, what’s going on?” he asked quietly, rotating his wrists faintly in the cuffs.

Bond blinked, expression revealing nothing. “Who are you working for? I want names, contacts, rendezvous points,” Bond told him flatly.

Q’s soft _oh_ was strangely shattering. Resigned and quiet.

It was entirely one thing, being accused of betraying one’s country, the country a lifetime had been dedicated to. It was quite another for your partner to _believe_ the accusations, let alone wind up on the team that would be extracting information from him.

“I assume the evidence was watertight?” he asked levelly, staring at his bound wrists.

Bond nodded, and Q sighed out a long, controlled breath, light green eyes shut off. There was nothing he could say. Bond worked with data, Q couldn’t blame him for that; by this point, it made no difference what Q said. Bond wouldn’t trust him, or indeed believe him.

They sat in silence. “I won’t ask again,” Bond told him simply. He didn’t want to escalate the situation; he knew Q too well, knew how to frighten him most effectively, knew precisely where to apply pressure if he wanted Q to tell him whatever he wanted.

“I know you won’t,” Q said, with a broken smile. “I only wish I had anything at all to tell you.”

Bond felt something unpleasant churn in his stomach. This was not going to be pleasant. He had seen the evidence, dossiers that linked leaked information back to their Quartermaster; Bond couldn’t see how it had been faked, Q-branch all confirming the truth of the evidence. Q was their leak, without question. He needed Q’s contacts.

Perhaps Q would have liked to have seen some flicker of remorse, or sadness. Some hint that Bond was utterly dreading this. Bond betrayed nothing, and felt nothing; anything he had felt towards Q was blocked off.

Queen and Country, he told himself, Q watching him walk around the table.

_Oh god, Q._

-

It didn’t take long for Bond’s nerve to snap. Q didn’t fight, didn’t swear or argue. He merely took whatever Bond threw at him with a disconcerting quiet, not bothering to waste oxygen reiterating that he didn’t know anything, nor was he a mole. He curled his hands into fists to protect his fingers, and let Bond do what he was good at.

“M, I think we have the wrong person,” Bond said flatly. “Reassign another agent, I’m aware that you won’t trust my judgement given my proximity to the situation, but Q is not demonstrating _any_ hallmarks of being our mole. Usually there are at least flickers, by this stage. Either he is an exceptionally accomplished liar, or he shouldn’t be there.”

There was blood under Bond’s fingernails.

M knew Q couldn’t lie; that had been amply demonstrated during the Skyfall incident. “I’ll get a psych team in there,” he said calmly. “Earlier assessments indicated a depersonalisation, detachment; it is possible this is a defence mechanism. Consider yourself pulled, but I’ll keep you updated on progress.”

Bond nodded.

He fought with the rising desire to vomit.

-

It took another week for them to track down the actual mole; Bond knew other agents had worked on Q, and also knew that if he hadn’t managed to extract any information, they certainly wouldn’t.

Q’s injuries were painful but superficial; the agents were very good at what they did. They had no need for mindless violence, and had no interest in killing Q, or damaging him long-term. They let their consciences live under the banner of almost-morality, knowing their targets would ultimately recover, at least physically.

Bond sought out Q in the Medical department. “Out,” Q said flatly, the moment he saw Bond. “I know why, I understand, I would do the same, there is _nothing_ you can say. Until I am quite considerably further down the path of recovery, I have no interest in seeing or speaking to you.”

It was the job, of course it was the job. Q considered, briefly, leaving MI6; he didn’t want to, and knew he wouldn’t. He would do the same to anybody, if he needed to, to protect the secrets he was paid to protect.

But not to Bond. He thought. Jesus, he didn’t know any more.

He stared blankly at the sheets as he listened to Bond walk away.

\---

Bond was one of a very select few who were not surprised, when Q returned to MI6. He had a stint in Medical , the Psych teams spent a decently long while ensuring he wasn’t about to go mad and kill everybody, and M had a final meeting with him where they discussed what had happened.

Q had simply repeated that he understood. That it was the job. He was believed to be serious security leak, and treated as such. Once it became evident that he was not, MI6 released him, took care of him. He had no concerns about remaining as Quartermaster, but quietly insinuated that he would be less than delighted were the situation to repeat itself.

Honestly, it was quite impressive, if he thought about it. Minimal scarring. A few stitches to various points of his back, where the skin had broken. Some respiratory difficulty due to broken ribs, but never hard enough to puncture, or cause more serious injury. It was clean, professional.

On a less obvious level, Q would have a fear of drowning for the rest of his life. He would also never listen to loud music, or any song on repeat, ever again.

Those things could be placed to one side, were liveable with.

He didn’t know how to respond to Bond. Bond had known, with terrifying clarity, what would hurt him the most. He had been the one to introduce the sleep deprivation and repetitive, over-loud music, until Q had been left crying listlessly, curled on one side, shuddering, unable to access any thoughts, forced into consciousness with no way of escaping.

Bond had known what he was doing. Q didn’t have information to give him. He would have given Bond practically anything he asked for.

“Hi,” he said with a hollow smile, not quite able to make it genuine, as Bond sought him out in Q-branch. “How have you been?”

Bond watched him warily, as though expecting Q to snap at any moment. “You understand?” he asked softly, carefully, reaching out a hand to cover Q’s.

Q tugged away, tension thrumming in his thin body. It wasn’t Bond’s fault, and he _knew_ that – he couldn’t help being afraid. Bond had hurt him, had utilised knowledge of what he knew Q feared, to break him. It was understandable. The correct idea, in fact. Bond was a professional, after all.

Queen and Country. He had to remember that, above all else. It was not Bond’s fault.

Q stared at his desk, entire body tense, inches from snapping. “Yes,” he replied easily, calmly, papering over the fault lines. “I… I’ll be in-branch for a while, so don’t be too concerned if I don’t come back to the flat.”

‘The flat’. He had called it home, before. Interesting. Bond pretended not to notice.

“You shouldn’t work too hard,” he said quietly, wishing he could reach out, take back his Q. _I’m sorry_.

Q smiled faintly, not quite making it real. “Don’t worry about me,” he said softly, fingers brushing the edge of Bond’s hand for a faint second, withdrawing again. All the contact he could bear. _I know_.

He wanted to smile. He was to laugh at it all, at the stupidity. At Bond’s choice of music, and the fact that he’d given Q a cup of Earl Grey every morning which meant he was either a sentimental bastard, or one of the most frighteningly manipulative human beings Q would ever know.

The idea of it being the latter was enough to stop Q asking. He didn’t want to know.

“Do you still trust me?” Bond asked quietly, a few days later, Q sleeping upright in his office, burying himself in codes to stop thinking about anything else. He craved sleep, woke at the slightest stimulus.

Q looked at him, and thought for a long moment. “Yes,” he murmured, truthfully. “I didn’t think I would, but I always will. Almost more so, in an absurdly masochistic way, knowing that you’re that devoted to MI6…”

“Not as an agent,” Bond interrupted abruptly, confusion flickering over Q’s expression. “Do you trust _me_?”

The question encompassed everything. Q sighed quietly, heavily. “I think so,” he said, and hoped that would be enough. “This isn’t easy for me.”

“I know,” Bond said quietly, as Q started to doze off, half-clinging to consciousness simply because he was scared to wake up again. He would adapt, would be alright, eventually. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he added, voice brokenly quietly.

Q blinked at him slowly, nodded. He didn’t say it was okay.

He slept, and Bond guarded him.

\---

Q returned to their flat, eventually. M eventually intervened, insisted that Q go home and get some proper rest before he expired. M even threatened enforced leave, which Q actively _growled_ at the thought of.

The first night, Bond had been unsure of what to do. They spent an evening together, Q managing to not utter a single word for nearly four hours. When pressed, he simply told Bond that he couldn’t think of anything to say.

It was a distressing concept. Q always had so much going on in his head, infinite thoughts and dreams and ideas and words, words and words, and Bond was so accustomed to those words spilling from him with feverous excitement. He understood some parts, others evaded him, all were spoken with the passionate light and interest that Bond loved about Q.

Something of that had gone, from Q. Bond had the horrible feeling that he was the one to have killed it.

They slept in the same bed, not touching. Q left the light on, and Bond could hear that he wasn’t sleeping; the young man was tangibly exhausted, feared sleep. When he finally managed to slip out, it was barely forty-five minutes before he woke up again with a choking, almost inaudible keen of panic.

“Q?”

Q scrambled away from him, literally toppling off the bed in his haste to get the hell away from Bond, landing on the floor with a thump and just lying there in a foetal position, sobbing.

Bond didn’t interfere, because he couldn’t.

 When Q crawled back onto the bed, trembling as he slid back under the covers, he glanced over to Bond. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking impossibly tired. Bond didn’t reach out to him. Q didn’t move closer.

He turned on his side, away from Bond, and tried to sleep again.

Twenty minutes of sleeplessness later, Q picked up a pillow, and wordlessly installed himself in the living room, under a spare blanket. Bond sighed, propping himself up in their bed, wishing there was a damn thing he could do as he started to doze off again.

Next thing he knew, there was an unbelievable crash from the living room.

Bond was out of bed like a shot, gun out of his bedside table, every sense on maniacal alert as he tried to locate the source of any problem at all; Q had left all the lights on, he could see around the whole flat but couldn’t see…

Q was slumped in the far corner of the living room. Next to him lay the shattered form of Bond’s wall clock; a cheap thing, had once been hung at Bond’s head height, in the middle of the wall.

It lay in pieces, and Q was curled up in a tight knot, breathing harshly. He unfurled himself, Bond lowering to floor-level to pose less of an instinctive threat, watching Q carefully.

“After you’d gone,” Q said, voice a whiplash, devolving into a fluid ribbon of speech. “They started… Time, my perception of time, threat, anticipation… constant ticking, clocks. They’d… do something or other, and all I could hear was the fucking ticking, counting the seconds, they’d tell me how many seconds and I’d lose count and think I was dying and it was never going to stop. And I heard that clock, it was ticking, and I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Bond watched, Q winding himself taught, near snapping, relaxing. A sharp rasp: “It’s fucking stupid. I love my job, and it doesn’t affect me so much there. Put me on my own for any time, however…” he stopped, trying to regulate his breathing, not doing tremendously well.

An extended palm; Q looked at it, sighed. Placed his own hand there. An assurance that Q wasn’t alone, not really.

“I love you,” Bond said pointlessly, assuming Q wouldn’t believe it.

“I know,” Q replied instead, smiling a little, Bond’s eyes flashing with inevitable shock. “You’ve been betrayed before by those you loved, who loved you. You had to know for yourself; I can understand that.”

Bond gently, very gently, tugged on Q’s hand in a tentative encouragement. He wanted to be able to hold Q, to rock away the demons and nightmares and fears that he had, on his own.

Q shook his head, retracted his hand, breaking the thin line of connection they’d shared for a brief, promising moment.

“Not yet,” he murmured, and rested his cheek on his bent knees.

\---

Q remained collapsed on the sofa, finally asleep, barely managing to remain unconscious and jerking awake, darting out, reaching out and fighting and grasping and desperately trying, trying, trying.

At one, horrible stage, Q had tried to fight off invisible assailants. Bond had woken to find Q thrashing, caught up in blankets, having toppled off the sofa and continued to battle, half-conscious.

Bond lifted him out of the blankets, catching Q’s ephemeral limbs easily, letting the young man  _scream_  before collapsing, collapsing onto Bond in a way that had no trust, but was born wholly from feeling defeated, knowing there was no point in fighting, not against him.

“I’m so sorry, Q,” Bond whispered to him, while Q keened out terror into his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

-

The nightmares faded, eventually. Everything faded. The scars became white and lightened and could only been seen in the right light, and the ribs stopped being tender and he could breathe without any twinges and everything, everything was okay, eventually.

Q walked into the flat, at one stage, to find a number of pertinent albums missing from his collection, to find every clock that had any type of ticking function gone, to find no sign of anything that could have feasibly reminded Q of his time in MI6 custody. He had even changed the shower head, to give a more dispersed jet of water, a weaker spray.

Neither had said a word on the subject. Q had his first shower in weeks; he had been using the bath, sitting cross-legged in an inch or so of water and using handfuls of water at a time. A laborious process, but any real quantity of water landing on Q’s head was – at least initially – a very quick way to trigger a panic attack.

Q came out, curled on the bed in a puddle of blankets, hiding every inch of his frame from Bond’s view. He stayed at a fair distance; Bond was always around when Q tried to shower, had to listen out for any problems.

It was hardest when Q was alone. Bond, therefore, tried to ensure Q was never alone.

“I wish I could make it better,” Bond told him honestly; Q managed a half-hearted smile, shrugged a little. There was nothing more Bond could do, and they knew that. They were trying, had tried, everything. “I never wanted this.”

Q’s smile became a fraction more genuine. “I know,” he said, very honestly. “Please. Stop it. You say that every time. I know. And I never meant to react like this either, but I did, and you did, and we’re doing what we can.”

Bond nodded, expression dark.

He didn’t know what to think when Q padded over to him with a type of resolve, and kissed him. Bond hesitated a moment, shocked, before returning it gently, pouring himself into it, trying to communicate that he had never stopped loving Q, not at any stage, and wasn’t that just the worst part of it all.

Q pulled back, looking slightly pleased with himself, looking – finally – a little happier.


	48. The Vampire!Bond fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vampire!Bond au: Vampires are allowed to co-exist peacefully with the rest of the population as long as they only take blood from people who willingly sign contracts to exclusively donate blood to a specific vampire. Q seeks out Bond to make a contract so his greedy parents can’t marry him off to a spouse-beater. He deliberately seeks out Bond because he hears that while Bond isn’t cruel he’s the most possessive of the unattached vamps. Bond is more than happy to oblige.

The boy at his door had to be on the cusp of turning eighteen, and hadn’t been contracted yet; Bond gave him a decent once-over before bothering to even open a dialogue. “Yes?” he asked, looking politely amused.

The boy stood his ground admirably, given that he was standing in front of a vampire. “I want to be contracted to you. Specifically you,” he announced brazenly.

“You’d better come in, then,” Bond said with a slight smirk, stepped back to allow the boy in. He showed the boy down the corridor, interested by the lack of visible fear, or even concern. “Tea?”

“You have tea?” the boy asked, in flat confusion. Bond looked at him, raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, yes.”

Bond was trying very hard not to laugh. The boy was trying ridiculously hard, for whatever reason, and Bond resolved to actually humour him for as long as possible, before the scent of unclaimed blood became overwhelmingly. “I have several thralls, and quite enjoy the caffeine kick myself,” he commented, trying to provoke a reaction via the casual implication of his feeding habits. The boy didn’t flinch. “Okay. Your name?”

“Q,” the boy replied. Bond watched him mercilessly, until the boy explained: “I hate my name. Q’s better.”

Bond accepted that without further query. “You want a contract. Why?”

“My family are intending to sell me off to Raoul Silva,” Q replied simply; Bond was quietly grateful that the boy wasn’t trying to lie. Lies were obvious, human were pathetically bad at them.

Silva was renowned amongst human and vampires alike for his exceptionally poor treatment of thralls. Physical and sexual abuse, particularly; Bond had nothing but dislike for the man. Feeding did cause sexual arousal, certainly, but Bond had never – and would never – use a thrall in that way without consent.

Bond nodded slightly; he could understand Q’s reluctance, really. “Why me?” he asked steadily, drinking in the boy’s scent, the tangible richness of his blood.

“Silva likes me,” Q said, voice very slightly unsteady for the first time. “You keep your thralls, you look after them. You’d… if you were to take me, you’re the only kind of vampire who’d be able to keep me safe.”

Bond moved closer to the boy, leaning in to linger millimetres from Q’s throat. He darted out a tongue, sliding along the pulsing artery. “Are you sure?” he asked, in a velvet rumble.

Q nodded. “Please,” he murmured, breathless, heart beating louder than he knew possible.

If Bond broke the skin, Q would be marked. It would begin. The formalities could come later, _would_ come later; what mattered was that Q would be protected, safe.

Q shuddered slightly at the rasp of teeth, cold, sharp. “I accept,” Bond told him, and let his teeth sink into Q’s throat.

\---

Naturally, it took no time at all for every single sword to fall at once, slicing into Q’s body, tearing him to pieces in a splintered second.

He was contracted – or ‘enthralled’, as Bond romantically termed it – to Bond, and just James Bond. Quite honestly, Q had never wanted to be a vampire donor; he was with Bond only to avoid a far worse option, who seemed considerably less than pleased that Q was no longer to be his.

Q’s parents were not a concern. Q immediately took up residence with Bond – not compulsory, but preferable in Q’s case – and escaped their truly impressive anger. His forced contract with Silva had promised to make them a fair amount of money, and Q had deliberately undermined them.

Silva had no access to Q for a while. Q took refuge in Bond’s house, hiding from the world while he adapted to his new role, the paperwork all went through, unequivocally linking him with Bond.

He ran a hand absentmindedly along the small punctures in his throat, hating what they made him. Society believed that thralls were believed to be capable of little more than providing food and sex; Q was capable of far more, loathed that he would be reviled for the rest of his life by anybody not involved in the vampraic world.

When Silva found him – as Q had expected – it was truly, honestly terrifying. Bond or not, he was faced with an established vampire, one who was angry and insulted and known to have little respect for human beings in the first place. “I dislike being rejected,” he purred, pale body pressed close to Q; Q flattened himself against the wall, passersby just letting it happen, putting together the bite marks and the vampire and deciding not to intervene.

“I’m contracted now, you have no claim over me,” Q told him levelly, as Silva’s mouth travelled too-close to Q’s throat, the whisper of teeth over his artery a true reminder.

Silva pinned Q against the wall with nothing more than his body; humans were far too weak, there was no point in wasting energy in a fight he could never win. Hands travelled over Q’s thin body, settling over his hips, making Q’s spine straighten as he affected dispassion. “I had looked forward to you,” Silva told him, voice a treacled murmur, so appallingly pale in the dim light, almost translucent, elegant fingers trailing to Q’s chin. “Such a pretty face.”

Q could have laughed; his face was the least of Silva’s interests, that much was obvious. His hands lingered, and he kept his head too-close to Q’s neck, breathing in his scent. “Get off me,” Q told him, with more power than he felt.

Silva’s grip turned too hard, bruising, Q letting out a startled cry; a woman with shopping bags glanced briefly, averted her gaze quickly. Nobody helped thralls. They signed their lives away, and it was expected that their vampire would treat them as they deserved. Q was nothing, and Bond was nowhere to be seen.

Q gave a startled yelp as he was lifted bodily by the collar with no effort whatsoever, transported to the back of a shop, dumped unceremoniously. Silva was over him in a second, teeth now at full extension. “Bond will kill you,” Q promised, panic making his heart beat faster, the scent becoming overwhelming for his attacker. “My blood, it’s tainted anyway, Bond…”

“Tainted, but not wholly spoiled,” Silva pointed out; being enthralled to a vampire left traces, venom crawling through the blood, polluting it and linking it to one person. Never enough venom to turn the thrall, enough to keep them linked; other vampires would detest the taste. Apparently, it was not about to deter Silva. “Shall we see if dear James still wants you, after I’m done?”

Panic. Pure panic. Silva couldn’t claim him; Q’s blood had adapted to Bond, his entire neurology geared towards Bond’s venom. He wouldn’t turn him either; it was very illegal to turn an unwilling thrall, not worth the effort.

He could, however, damage Q’s blood. Leave enough venom to render Q’s blood abhorrent. Bond would reject him, the taste too repulsive to bear, Q’s blood and body re-adapting to a new vampire over the course of several days. That much venom in a human body was like acid, would hurt more than Q wanted to comprehend, and Bond had no reason to want to save him. The legalities would take a while to go through; by the time human authorities realised that Q had changed hands, it would be far too late to save him from the worst of it.

Q scrabbled hands over Silva’s chest, trying to get him off, desperate in a way he couldn’t recall feeling before.

He outright _screamed_ when teeth sank into his throat

\---

Q’s body was limp, blood trickling sluggishly out of the two indent marks in his throat, sobbing despite himself, paralysed with pain. Two days. The venom would make him Silva’s, and he would turn eighteen, contracted to somebody who was determined to use him. Bond had understood, _known_ what Silva was capable of.

Silva wanted him. Q’s blood was now repulsive to all but Silva, his body used; Bond hadn’t been there, hadn’t been able to protect him. He was now discarded, a broken toy, ready to be picked up in a handful of days and taken into Silva’s life.

Absentmindedly, he wondered if his parents would still get the money, now he was Silva’s. He expected they’d try, if nothing else. Maybe they’d finally pay off the mortgage, sell up and move to the coast like they always wanted. Maybe.

 _Fuck them_ , he thought, whenever coherency filtered back. Every heartbeat hurt, pain spiking through his lower body, the memory of that making him release a soft wail.

He wouldn’t let this happen. This was _not_ going to be his life. He was not going to spend every remaining day he had in fear, in pain, wanting something else, trying to escape. That wasn’t living, what he was heading towards was _not_ living.

Silva had left him around the back of the shops, a dank alley where nobody would find him; Q would be expected to either find Silva, or be picked up when everything was over.

Bins and rubbish and discarded bottles lay in sporadic intervals. He would work with that.

Q honestly had no idea how much time had passed, but it was continuing to pass, and with each passing second, he was becoming Silva’s.

Fingers curled around the top of an empty wine bottle. Q smashed it against the floor, glass splintering against the tarmac, flicking in and out of concentration as he tried to keep his head together enough to make this work. After Silva’s feeding, he was already a little dizzy from blood loss; it wouldn’t take too much to make him lose the rest.

Sharp, searing pain. Each heartbeat became less frequent, the pulse of acid through his veins less acute, the pain fading away incrementally.

Q cried almost emotionlessly, eyes shut, letting his body become weaker.

Cold hands pressed against him, wordless and eloquent, holding onto his torn wrists, trying to help him. Q shook his head, too weak to pull away, bones brittle and body increasingly hollow. “Please,” Q breathed, not bothering to try opening his eyes, words sincerely difficult. “Let me go. I don’t…”

A sharp hush, a mouth against his throat; Q’s scream was throttled and low, no coordination or strength left. Not again, he couldn’t do this again, _please_ , go away, just let him die. He wasn’t that interesting, he wasn’t that pretty, he wasn’t _anything_ He just wanted to die in relative peace.

The pain was almost gone. Q felt himself pulled effortlessly into somebody’s embrace, head lolling backwards, crumpling like crepe paper in somebody’s too-strong grip. Nothing hurt, and would have smiled if any muscle would respond in the slightest, knowing it was almost over.

There was still a mouth over his throat, Q didn’t know what it was doing, and didn’t care.

His heartbeat was becoming stronger again.

 _No_ , Q whimpered without voice; it had to be a vampire, somebody forcing blood back into his body, keeping him alive, hands bandaging his wrists tightly as the vampire went against everything in his biology to force one human, one pointless thrall, back into life. _Not fair. You can’t force me back, you can’t. I won’t stay with you, I won’t, I’ll find a way_ …

“I’m sorry,” a low voice murmured, moving back from Q’s throat, kissing his wounds with near-reverential gentleness.

How funny, Q mused, hoping he would finally reach unconsciousness, head spinning slightly.

It sounded like Bond.

\---

Q woke up, eyes full of tears, truly devastated in a way he hadn’t felt capable of feeling. Something was moving, something in the darkness behind his eyelids, coming back for him.

“Open your eyes,” a quiet voice told him; Q didn’t have the strength to argue nor the willpower to be deliberately obstreperous. The light was very low, easy to adapt to, everything immensely blurry without his glasses. He blinked once, twice, trying to clear the fog from his vision.

Hands moved over him, and Q flinched violently, letting out a soft whimper. A hush, gentler than the last one, the tone of somebody trying not to cause upset. The world swam into focus very abruptly, the soft fuzz made sharp and angular, the lights now thin points.

Bond watched him, expression entirely neutral. “I’m sorry,” he told Q, very honest. Q watched him like he didn’t recognise him, breathing unsteadily, trembling faintly.

His wrists really, really hurt, more than he’d known possible. He tried not to think too hard about the pain from his backside. The wounds on his throat pulsed slightly, twinged when he tried to turn his head. He cried expressionlessly, gaze not wavering from Bond. “You were going to protect me,” he said hollowly, no accusation in his tone.

“I failed,” Bond conceded, with a slight nod. His bright blue eyes – so bright, for a vampire, impossibly _human_ – were darker than usual, sad or angry, Q didn’t know which.

Q tried to move, immediately deciding that was quite enough of that. Fuck, it hurt. “I told you he’d come after me, I _told you_ ,” Q rasped, eyes slipping shut again. “I’m corrupted, and he’ll come for me again, he’s the only one who’ll want me now…”

“He’ll have a difficult time ‘coming for you’,” Bond commented, almost conversational. Q’s eyes cracked open, fixing on Bond. “I killed him.”

A moment of almost stupid stillness, Q failing utterly to comprehend. “What?” he managed, in a rasp. “But I thought…”

“It’s a myth that vampires can’t die,” Bond said calmly, an exercise in stillness. “Your kind cannot, and it is again our laws to harm fellow vampires. However, I drew a line at what he did to you. As a result, you have some choices. I can release you from your contract…”

A strangled breath. “Why would you?” Q interjected, before Bond could finish the sentence.

Bond merely raised an eyebrow. “You became contracted to me on the understanding that I would protect you,” he explained, eyes ranging over the boy settled in the bed. “I reneged on my end of the deal. Ergo, I would consider our contract null, and would terminate it if you wished.”

It was a tempting offer. Q could have freedom back, leave the vampraic world behind. If it weren’t for the marks on his neck, the puncture marks that would never fade, he would accept in a heartbeat. As it were, he could end up an outcast of both worlds. “Or?” he asked quietly, his blinks languid, body barely twitching.

“To keep you alive, I had to give you what amounts to a transfusion. Only about half the blood in your body is your own, and most of that still contains contaminants,” Bond explained, top lip wrinkling almost imperceptibly at the thought of Silva’s venom, still lingering in Q’s body. “It will take at least four months for your blood to be entirely your own again. I would propose keeping you here, with me, until such a time as you can be enthralled once again.”

“You don’t want me,” Q murmured softly, sadly, blocking pain behind his eyelids. “I’m nothing of interest.”

Bond’s hand was cold, but not unpleasantly so. “You would not be here, and Silva would not be dead, if that were true,” he said softly. Q’s eyes stayed closed, exhaustion and blood loss rendering his body immobile, sliding into sleep.

He didn’t feel the icily cold lips on his forehead, or the repeated, soft apology.

\---

Q’s eyes slid open, focusing on the ceiling, the sunlight dimmed by British clouds that filtered out the brightness, a gently ambient level.

He sat up slightly, blinking out sleep, grappling for his glasses; he slid them on awkwardly, expression faintly pissed off at being awake in the first place. He hated mornings, always had done, but he couldn’t damn well sleep properly these days.

The nightmares were relatively constant. Not to mention that his botched attempt to escape Silva had led to hands that were still a little uncomfortable; he would probably never regain full dexterity in his left thumb again, but other than some general aching around the wrists and some impressive-looking scarring, he was doing alright.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he used the toilet, blearily glanced at himself in the mirror. He was looking better, these days; immediately afterwards, he had been pale, sweaty, slightly shook at all hours. The venom was an absurdly unpleasant experience; he was still experiencing some of the longer-reaching effects. The venom had thinned his blood, sent his already-low blood pressure through the floor.

The icy warmth crept into Q’s skin, Bond’s body pressing against him before Q knew what had happened. “Are you alright?” he asked simply, not unkindly.

Q flexed his fingers, rotated his hands, the ugly pink, jagged marks a painful reminder. He couldn’t see Bond in the mirror, of course; he twisted around, looking up and down the vampire quickly, almost shyly. “I’m good,” he replied in a softer tone, letting his mind clear a little. Sleep was always hard, but it was getting easier, and that was all that mattered.

Bond didn’t move, and Q hadn’t expected him to; he leaned forward instead, pressing a feathery type of kiss to his cold lips, an undemanding type of kiss. Bond near sighed, a hand snaking around Q’s back to keep him close.

Four months was a long time. Q had essentially moved into Bond’s home, had begun working as a freelance anonymous hacker, when his hands were healed enough to allow him. Bond seemed to have no problem with it, which Q found a little odd, but didn’t question too closely.

Four months was enough time to learn so many nuances of another person. Learn who they truly are. Living with somebody gives a very unique perspective; even the most skilled liars have to tell the truth eventually, and with that long in close proximity, every mask fell at some stage.

Q found he didn’t mind it much. He felt alright, being honest with Bond, telling all aspects of the truth. He was too jaded now to believe Bond would keep him safe, but he would never judge, and he would never harm. In fact, he would do all in his power, he would _fight_ for Q. Nobody had done that before.

Bond wasn’t feeding from him. Everything they had was based on a premise that had nothing to do with vampirism. It was genuine, honest, entirely open.

Soon Q’s blood would be clear. Bond would be able to take from him again, Q falling pliant into his arms, a ragdoll. He would remain unhurt, untouched, if he wanted. In technical language, as Bond’s thrall, he was essentially just a source of sustenance.

Sharp points hovered, lingered, and Q smiled.

There was a whole world out there, somewhere. Q always knew he was going to choose Bond, at the end of it. For him, there had never been any other option.


	49. The M/Q/Bond Omegaverse fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drelfina here again: Yet another promptbecause i love omega prompts. :D Since omegas are left in wills, what if Q had belonged to a high ranking alpha, like M? in her will she had left him to the next alpha to take her place, or maybe to Bond, because Bond always had been her sort of favourite. On the other hand,Mallory/Q seems kind of sweet and adorable, so maybe Q ending up with two alphas sharing custody is hilarious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nsfw in places!

“Oh, this is just not _fair_ ,” Q whined, as Bond and M crowded into his office. “You couldn’t have just worked it out between you?”

M had left her Omega – and the Quartermaster of MI6 – to her replacement as M. She had not anticipated that in the spare twenty minutes between her death, and her will being carried out, that Bond would decide to claim Q for his own.

Legally, he was M’s, but M hadn’t claimed him yet. Biologically, his allegiance had been solely with Bond. M had irritably placed a secondary claim a few days after Bond had, much to Q’s chagrin; Q was therefore now bonded to two Alphas, who _apparently_ were now intending to _keep him_ bonded with both of them.

It was possible for Alphas to share Omegas. It was just rare; usually, Alphas became too possessive to allow them to share. Q was therefore something of an anomaly.

“You will be living with us alternately,” M told him, as Q rolled his eyes. “We believe a week each, at present.”

“Are you serious?” Q moaned. “Do you have any idea how impractical that is?”

“You will do as you’re told,” M told him coldly, unimpressed by Q’s melodramatic response. “Bond and I have reached a mutual consensus, as your Alpha. It is the most effective way for us to both retain custody. Any decisions concerning your wellbeing will go through both of us, although in emergency scenarios, I am technically your primary.”

“Legally, yes. Bond got to me first on the physical aspect, however,” Q commented; as far as Q’s biology went, Bond was more important. “Also, here’s a question: how are both of you intending to manage heats?”

Bond and M exchanged glances. “We will both be present for your heats,” Bond said simply. Q’s eyes widened, eyebrow raised expressively. Two Alphas in heat, with one Omega, was not necessarily an ideal situation for the Omega – Alphas were not always especially restrained in heats. There was also a fair risk to the two Alphas, who would start fighting for dominance.

Q had heard of it working, but really, had never expected to be asked to test the theory.

“Well, this ought to be an experience,” he noted drily. “I’m warning you now, I will not be happy if both of you start bickering in public…”

Bond slapped him. Q blinked in shock. M watched impassively. It was perfectly acceptable for Alphas to physically discipline their Omegas, but Q had honestly thought neither of them would do so. “You do not criticise either of us openly, do I make myself clear?” Bond asked in a low rumble.

Q looked between them both, nodded. His cheek burned faintly; he had been so well-behaved with M’s predecessor, he’d forgotten how it felt to have new Alphas. “Perfectly.”

\---

It was supposed to be perfectly manageable. Easy, even. No single Alpha to become unduly attached to, both of them affording him time and attention when required.

In practise, his Alphas both assumed the other was taking care of Q, emotionally and physical. As time wore on, Q was growing accustomed to the feeling of being utterly neglected by his two Alphas.

Q felt his heat coming on with a surge of unmitigated panic. He didn’t want a heat just then, not with his Alphas barely present; it would be the worst kind of unfulfillment, jockeyed between two uncaring Alphas, only there because of what he stood for as the old M’s Omega.

Locking down Q-branch was remarkably easy. The Q-branch kids were all Betas or Omegas, and wouldn’t be affected by their branch leader’s heat. Q, meanwhile, had to find some way of surviving it alone.

Masturbation would take some of the edge off it, but not very effectively, and not for long. A prostate massager was probably a good investment. There was no way he could take suppressants without getting in serious trouble with those higher-up than MI6; he just needed to weather the storm.

The first wave hit like a truck, cramping over his desk, keening. Q-branch were ready; the first wave would last a few hours, and Q would be immensely dehydrated and hungry afterwards, his body trying to deal with a need it couldn’t fulfil.

Fuck, but it was painful.

He became a little delirious around the point of the second wave, curled on the floor of his office, door locked, frantically trying to come, vibrator really achieving sod all when Q was desperate for an Alpha’s scent, the warmth, the press of bodies.

Outside, M and Bond were stratospherically livid. M had threatened everything from execution to budget cuts, while Bond had begun to detail the number of ways he’d kill every person in Q-branch if they didn’t lift the lockdown.

R apologetically told them that Q was the only person with the override codes, and it was set to remain locked until the heat was over.

The third wave, and Q was struggling not to outright scream. His door was locked again, obviously; the few hours of it passed, Q feeling boneless and tired and desperate in a quiet, painful way. He opened the door to allow R in, bearing bottles of water, protein shakes, sugar. “Remind me why you’re doing this?” she asked, tone sad.

“They don’t want me as an Omega any other bloody time, they can’t have me now,” Q rasped, throat hoarse from strangled cries. “I’m not going to be their sex toy, whenever they choose, they can fuck off.”

“They don’t mean…”

“Then they’d better work out what the fuck they _do_ mean, before demanding they have me during heats,” Q said primly, managing to straighten, very weak. “Alright. I have another few hours before the next wave. I want the current test results for the prototype GY2’s on my computer, and…”

“Q, don’t be ridiculous,” R said firmly. “Rest. I’ll also have a word with your irresponsible Alphas, shall I?”

“Don’t you dare let them in,” Q mumbled, sinking exhaustedly into his chair.

R smiled. “Couldn’t if I tried,” she lied fluidly, and went to have short, sharp words with the morons who’d reduced Q to this state.

\---

Q retched slightly, his body barely holding together. He felt like absolute shit. Somebody had boiled his blood, was now pumping it around him, along with an inexorable need to copulate that outrun any and all sexual teasing Q had ever encountered with partners across the years. He was relatively certain something was going to rupture. The pain – the _need_ – was utterly blinding.

The smell of Alphas dimly registered. Q was vulnerable enough to not know who, or why, anything; he accepted the attention willingly, body more than ready, desperately hard and entrance slick.

Q accepted kisses blindly, literally unable to do anything himself. There were hands and mouths everywhere, over his throat, marking him and covering him with scent while another’s skin pressed to him, his back against their unclothed torso, cock nudging at his entrance as Q _screamed_ , so close to having his needs satisfied.

His body welcomed the intrusion, Q keening pathetically as he was fucked, somebody else kissing every part of his body they could reach, a hand working rhythmically over his cock. The smell permeated everything, sinking into Q’s bones and blood, a confirmation that _yes_ , his Alphas were there, they would look after him, make everything go away.

The Alpha behind him came with a shout, Q following close afterwards into the hand of the man in front.

There was a heartbeat of absolute stillness, almost clarity. He looked at Bond through myopic distortion, the blue eyes, blond hair familiar and welcome. He was too distanced to really consider his previous anger, how little he’d wanted Bond or M there.

Q whimpered again as the heat continued to burn under his skin, almost sated. Just a little more, something to temper it completely and make it manageable; Bond smiled, kissed him gently, as M slid out of him.

Bond moved into M’s place, M nipping marks along Q’s collar as the double-oh agent slid in easily. Q gave a gasp, fingers clenching spasmodically, the burn through his body already suggesting calm.

The sex was slower, less desperate. Q straddled Bond, torso arching back to rest against M, who held him as Bond fucked him slowly, the younger man’s heat giving him an impressive recovery time.

The pair murmured to him, low apologies, assurances that they would not repeat their mistakes. Q was exhausted and shaky, a truly horrible sight for two Alphas who had never meant harm; R had shrieked outright at them, chastising a trained killer and the head of MI6 quite impressively for a Beta woman in her mid-twenties.

Q came again, the contraction of muscles pushing Bond over. Q was still unable to even speak; he wordlessly curled into his two Alphas, the pair cocooning him from the wider world, promising they would never neglect him again.

\---

Q was beginning to rather enjoy the novelty of two people being entirely committed to his every whim. Since the Incident of his abandonment, the pair jousted to be a ‘better Alpha’ every second of the day.

In the middle of it all, Q smirked, and essentially got everything he could ever want. Bond brought back every single piece of equipment without so much as scratching the paintwork, and M increased Q-branch’s budget. When Q needed something from one, he casually slipped into conversation something the other had done for him.

Competitive, the other would strive to beat it. It was both wonderful entertainment, and ridiculously useful.

It took them a surprisingly long time to work it out, what was more. Secret agents both, and couldn’t realise when they were outright manipulated.

Q smirked at them metaphorically butting horns, and sauntered off stage left grasping a fiddly piece of tech Bond had acquired from Japan, just for him, and worked on it with a new laptop that M had bought him.

M smelled a rat long before Bond did. Bond was built for competition, had a merciless protective instinct; he wouldn’t be able to see a foot in front of him, if Q muddied the waters with the right words.

“Did you see what James found me?” Q hummed happily, as he tried to extort a later deadline on a prototype small-range missile. The undertone was calculated: _look what he does for me_.

With a raised eyebrow, M pushed his Omega into a deep, strong kiss. “Tuesday,” he reiterated, and went to find Bond.

Bond was not delighted. He found it hilarious, but was definitely not happy that he had been taken in so entirely by a skinny Omega in a cardigan. He deliberately chucked his gun into the Atlantic. Q gave him a look like Bond had tortured and killed a small furry animal in front of him, and snuffled at M.

He came home to find both his Alphas waiting for him, neither looking very impressed. Q had been expecting this moment. He placed his bag by the door, sighed. “You can’t blame me for trying,” he said objectively, as Bond slid behind him, M lingering in front, caging him in.

“I think you’ll find we really can,” Bond rumbled in his ear, hand snaking to grope Q’s cock, M kissing him again, the pair taking him apart together.

 _Worth it_ , Q thought with a twinge of utter satisfaction, delightedly letting the Alphas pretend they were in control of the situation, while Q was used and pleasured in every way humanly conceivable.


	50. The Silva Torture fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much! I have just found the prompt fill. Can I ask you for another prompt? In which Q is Silva's baby brother and he struggles to hide his grief when his brother died. Bond finds out but he forgives Q for letting Silva go the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture.

Q’s grief was quiet, understated. Bond took a while to notice it for what it was; his own grief was more expansive, usually. He had torn down civilisations after Vesper, had spent much of his life chasing shadows of the people he had once loved.

It took weeks before Bond understood.

“She was good, but really, your reaction is getting overboard,” Bond smiled, sliding Q an Earl Grey. Q glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly; he was apparently very good at feigning confusion.

“Who?”

“M?” Bond said, eyebrow raised.

Q snorted. “Jesus Bond, you have no _idea_ , do you?” he managed raspily; Bond finally got an idea of how tired Q looked, how carefully he had strung himself together and was now battling to stay there.

“Then tell me.”

Q ran hands through his hair, visibly strung. “I had a family once,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t seen him in years, but… blood is thicker than water, as they say, and I thought… I really did think…”

“An explanation would be excellent, approximately now,” Bond said sharply, putting the pieces together and arriving at a very unfavourable conclusion.

“We were brought up mostly separately; our mother was Spanish, she relocated back home. We saw each other every summer, grew very close… we taught each other about coding, computers… I was better, we both knew that, but he wanted the adrenaline, the immediacy… went into MI6 after our mother died. I’m sorry, Bond.”

“He didn’t hack us, you let him go,” Bond supplemented, suddenly, finally understanding. “Q, you knew what he was. He killed M, he killed your _colleagues_.”

“He was also my brother,” Q said quietly. “Do you not understand that at all? Rightly or wrongly. I knew he was tortured, they took part of his mind from him too… I kept him alive, because I could, just for a little while longer. I know… I know was utterly abhorrent, in the final days, but…”

“Family,” Bond replied, feeling oddly tired. “I can understand that, Q, whatever you may think of me.”

“I know what he did,” Q said with a light shrug, so much pain in his expression.

“He was your family,” Bond said, hand closing over Q’s forearm; it was forgivable. Just. Silva was a psychopath, in every possible sense of the word – but he was gone now. Skyfall had ended, and Silva was dead. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“No, you’re not,” Q half-smiled. “But thank you, regardless.”

\---

Q woke up blearily, eyes struggling to focus for a moment, his brain doing pained cartwheels. He lifted his head slowly, chin on his chest, back artificially straight; he realised, after an odd moment, that he was tied to a chair.

Various muscles were already starting to ache. Q shifted slightly. “Hello?” he asked lightly, voice hollow and strained. How annoying. He cleared it with a rough cough. “Hello?!”

“Hello there, clever boy.”

Q felt the bottom drop from his stomach; he twisted around in the chair, desperately trying to find the source, trying to see who had spoken. It couldn’t be. Q started thrashing, handcuffs biting painfully into his wrists.

The man who stepped into the dim light was painfully, acutely recognisable. “ _Tiago_ ,” Q breathed, eyes wide; his brother, his stupid, _ridiculous_ big brother. The brother who was supposed to be dead, had died after murdering the woman who hired him as Q. “But…”

Silva moved closer, tutting loudly, placing a finger over Q’s lips; Q, feeling a slight prickle of nervousness, fell obediently silent. “My dear boy,” Silva purred, keeping careful eye contact with Q, noticing the slight strain of tension in his posture. “You’ve been very naughty, haven’t you?” Silva asked rhetorically.

Q’s forehead crumpled in confusion. “What…?”

Silva slapped him.

Q’s head snapped to one side with a sharp exhale, more shock that actual pain; he felt tears spring up on instinct, his cheek throbbing. Q hadn’t seen Tiago properly since before Skyfall, his descent into insanity, watching his brother stalk the holding cells of MI6 and feeling almost no regret when he let him hack into the MI6 systems.

“You, and Mr Bond,” Silva said darkly, his motions that of a shark, waiting keenly for their prey. Q’s eyes widened, an unspoken confirmation that Tiago picked up on instantly; he had known Q for most of his life, could read the subtlest of expressive quirks. “Mummy’s golden boy…”

“Tiago, stop,” Q said urgently, hating this, hating seeing somebody he had loved so much, so drastically taken apart. “ _Please_. It’s over, now, just… let me go. We can talk, yes? I mean… I thought you were dead, I thought I’d lost you…”

Silva gave a flippant, effeminate gesture to something behind Q; the movements were loud, shockingly so as compared to the quiet. Q felt something rammed into his mouth, cloth tied tightly around the back of his head, muffling out his sudden cry. The people behind him let one wrist free, tugging his arms above his head instead, attached to the ceiling by a length of chain.

“I never thought my baby brother would be such a disappointment,” Silva said lightly, tone at odds with his actions, as Q tried to roll his shoulders, whimpering faintly as he tried to get free. “I never thought you’d _betray_ me like this. Not a clever boy, after all; just a whore for 007. I dislike whores, traitors.”

Silva picked up a short whip, eyes dark and bleak.

Q understood his intentions with a rush of sheer fucking _terror_.

He felt the scream at the back of his head, muffled by the gag, unexpressed. _You’re my brother, you’re my brother please, please don’t do this…_

The first blows were shockingly harsh, splitting skin. Silva was seeking to punish, nothing more, causing as much pain as he could to his younger brother. Q fought, cursed, choked on screams; not Tiago, _please_ , this couldn’t be his brother. Q had loved him enough to risk his job, risk MI6.

It _hurt._

_\---  
_

By the time Bond found Q, Silva had disappeared. Bond managed to get the young man out of the cuffs, supporting Q’s thin body as he carefully lowered the younger man to the ground. “Q. Who, and where?”

 Q shook, body shifting away from Bond’s, flinching as the medics started to fuss around him. “ _Stop it_ , stop touching me,” he said clearly. “Somebody get me a blanket, or something, please, I hate being this uncovered and I’m _fucking_ cold.”

“Q, we need to look at you…”

“ _Not right now_ ,” Q snapped, his voice an elastic plea, snapping back to Bond. “It was Tiago, sorry, Silva. Agent Silva. He’s not dead, James, sorry, _Bond_ , he’s alive, he’s very alive and he’s… James, he’s going to hurt you if he can, so please… just, get out of here, the med team can sort me out, he’s gone, long gone, I just…”

“Q,” Bond said steadily, cupping Q’s bruised face in his hands, the younger man quite clearly in shock, trying to wrench out of Bond’s grip. “Listen to me. Silva’s dead, it was confirmed by MI6. Whoever these people were, they have upset your perception of…”

Q lashed out with sudden, ferocious violence, kicking Bond back from him. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” he hissed. “My brother just tortured me for being with you, as a fucking _punishment_ for daring to be with the person who… he hates you, James, he does, and he won’t let me be with you again, I just… don’t you _dare_ try and tell me it wasn’t him, because I know my own _fucking_ brother.”

The medical team didn’t care much about Q’s words for the time being, far more concerned about the bloodied patchwork his back had become; Q kept trying to shoo them off, body melding into a tight knot, blood smearing his pale skin.

Bond felt a rising sense of nausea. If this was Silva – if Silva was, in fact, alive – the repercussions were monstrous.

“He’s your brother,” Bond said quietly, trying to understand. Q looked up at him through slightly wild eyes, flinching at the hands that tried to daub blood off him carefully.

Q’s laugh was harsh and clear. “I noticed,” he said snappily, hissing in pain as hands tended to his back. “He… James, I _loved him_. I didn’t trust him, not after Skyfall, but I never thought he’d… not this, _fuck_.”

Bond could see that Q was rapidly sliding out of all coherency. He stayed back, the younger man sharp and angry and shocked, simply shocked, enough to render him unable to form full sentences. “We’ll find him,” Bond said simply, Q gasping out in pain as the medical team tried to help with the gashes over his back, Q bluntly refusing to help them in any way. He seemed to have almost forgotten there was any pain there in the first place.

“And then what?” Q asked dully. “I thought… I really thought, once, that he could… get better, I suppose. Even when he died. I would have given… I would have done almost anything. And now I’ve lost him, and I’ve lost you.”

“You haven’t lost me…”

“Of course I have, we both know that,” Q said, without anger, just a level monotone. “I can’t… I will not give him a reason to do this again, I can’t. You don’t have siblings, you can’t understand. It’s a basic loyalty. Overrides everything. Even when I hated the bastard, he was still my brother. Parents you can hate, they can fuck you over by bringing you up wrong, but siblings? They’re your allies. Friends. Enemies. Something, anyway. He would have brought down most of the world to keep me safe, once.”

The disillusionment in Q’s tone was heartbreaking.

“We’ll find him,” Bond repeated, a little pointlessly.

Q’s laugh was horribly bitter.

\---

MI6 had spent all of their time, and all of their resources, trying to track down Silva. It was irritating that their Quartermaster was heavily compromised, but it was far from being a cataclysmic problem; Q supplied them with the equipment, they used it. Q refused to help, despite being threatened with disciplinary procedures; he simply argued that it was against protocol to be asked to assist given that he was emotionally compromised, and had been tortured by the mark.

M couldn’t argue. Q sat back, and watched them completely miss all the clues that could lead them to his brother.

Bond and Q had stopped seeing each other, at Q’s orders; he simply refused to see Bond, spoke to him only when necessary. Bond was working on the Silva case, so they didn’t see a tremendous amount of one another anyway.

When they eventually caught him – over two months later – Bond was the one interrogating.

“You hurt Q,” Bond stated flatly.

Silva’s smile was simple, rife with insinuations and flirtations and deep, abiding hatred. “My brother threw his lot in with the wrong side,” he purred, remorseless. “The dear boy should have known better.”

“He’s your _brother_.”

“Family betrays you,” Silva returned, tennis, fast and hard and merciless. “You of all people should know that, Mr Bond.”

“Why torture him?”

A short laugh. “I punished the transgressions of an errant child,” he corrected, smug smile indicative of his genuine belief that he had done the correct thing. “Hardly revolutionary.”

Bond leaned in close, ensuring his voice would not be caught by the cameras. “He grieved,” Bond hissed, feeling nothing but contemptuous anger for the man; what he had done seemed entirely unforgivable, siblings or not.

“For me, or for himself?” Silva purred back enigmatically, a quirk of eyebrows, a suggestion, a challenge. He refused to say another word, arms flat in his lap, eyes dancing.

Bond knew he would get nothing useful from the man. Silva just laughed, laughed as Bond walked out, as Q watched on the monitors with his face chalky, his back throbbing with remembered pain and heart aching as he watched his brother, whom he had loved once, cackle himself into irredeemable insanity.


	51. The Protective!Sherlock fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I worship the ground you walk on for your great writing skills. Can you do one where James and Q got into a big fight that causes Q to run out of their flat, in tears, and goes to Sherlock, his older brother, for comfort. But later on James realizes his mistake and goes to 221B to talk to Q only to meet Sherlock, who James has heard of but never met before, and of course Sherlock doesn’t like James doesn’t let him see Q. But in the end James and Q do make up. - anon

The man in the door of 221B Baker Street looked him up and down, and sighed. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he yelled up the stairs; an elderly lady popped her out of her door, the man apologetically telling her they had an unexpected guest. She retreated.

Bond, and the stranger he knew to be Doctor John Watson, waited in the hall for Sherlock to emerge.

The thin, angular man who stalked down the stairs was similar in Q in several visible respects, their family resemblance evident. He reached the bottom of the stairs, an exchanged look with John sending the other returning up to their flat.

Sherlock watched him with evident distrust, dislike. “You are, presumably, 007?” he asked in a low, velvet tone, edged with iron.

Bond blinked. “Where is he?” he asked simply, eyes darting up to the flat.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “He has no wish to see you, and I entirely agree with his decision,” he said flatly. “I have an instinctive, immense dislike of those who harm my younger brother. You will leave, _now_.”

“I came to apologise,” Bond said, with lethal quiet. Sherlock Holmes had no business in _his_ relationship; he needed to see Q, did not need to be impeded by his keeper. He attempted to circumnavigate Sherlock.

Thus ensued one of the more _interesting_ fights of Bond’s experience.

Mostly, he fought trained assassins, trained killers; the training was relatively consistent, and the techniques were usually predicatble, even in the more erratic portions. It went along a certain code, expected patterns.

Sherlock had nothing but experience. He was cold and dispassionate; a blend of truly perfect technical expertise, and the unpredictability born of street fights and boxing matches with people high, or drunk, or running on adrenaline.

He was surprisingly formidable.

“’Lock, stop it,” asked a quiet voice from the top of the stairs.

Bond’s attention snapped upwards; Sherlock took the distraction, flooring Bond for the first time in _years_. Bond made several notes to himself concerning returning to training in street fighting and martial arts, when he went back to MI6 in the morning.

For now, he looked up at Q, staying very still in the hope of not aggravating Sherlock further. Q looked a total wreck; he had left their flat in less than a good state, wound up at Sherlock’s in the middle of the night, essentially collapsing on the mercy of his over-defensive brother, who would _definitely_ look after him.

Sherlock moved from Bond, heading up a few steps, effectively blocking Bond’s path to his partner. “I’m sorry, Q,” Bond said slowly, watching his lover with true sadness, a true apology. “Just… let me come up, let me talk to you.”

Q looked down at Bond, past his brother, his implausible and impromptu guardian. Sherlock looked like wrath incarnate, furious and immediate and murderous; Bond realised he had come across somebody far more frightening than anybody he’d known before. Sherlock Holmes would rip the world apart for his brother.

“Okay,” Q said quietly. “Sherlock?”

 “I’ll stay if you want,” the man replied neutrally. Q just nodded, vanishing into 221B, Sherlock following quickly.

Bond, with a feeling of sheer trepidation, followed.

\---

Bond slid into the flat. Q had curled himself into a comfortable-looking armchair, almost swallowed by the thing; John had made him tea, Q grasping at it almost defensively, watching Bond balefully as he was waved towards the chair opposite.

Sherlock cleared his throat, settling on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, watching Bond with unguarded suspicion.

There is nothing more terrifying than trying to apologise to your very upset partner, _in front of_ his rather intimidating older brother. John, who was in the kitchen, was busy making over-compensatory noises to pretend he wasn’t listening in.

Bond had a fair amount to apologise for. He’d minimised Q’s job and his abilities, belittled him, patronised. Altogether, he’d entirely deserved Q’s silent, trembling exit in the middle of the night.

Trying to form any coherent apology with Sherlock Holmes watching was nigh on impossible. “Q, I’m sorry,” Bond said honestly. “I was unnecessary.”

Sherlock made a vaguely disparaging noise behind him, and Bond took a breath, seeking strength and sanity. Q was tucked up with knees to his chest, glancing up at Bond intermittently, clearly calmer with Sherlock present, to Bond’s irritation.

“I was angry, spoke entirely out of turn,” Bond continued, sliding to his knees, shuffling closer to Q. Sherlock’s body tensed, mouth a thin line. “Q, please. I’m sorry.”

Q looked over at Sherlock, very briefly. Sherlock just shrugged, with an expression that said _your funeral_. Bond was mildly upset that he’d managed to cause such antagonism between him and Q’s clearly precious brother.

“Do not feel compelled to forgive him,” Sherlock warned in a neutral, rich tone. “If you are still upset, you are right to remain apart from him for a time.”

“You’re not compelled, no,” Bond agreed, shooting Sherlock a sharp, lethal glare. The man’s lip twitched in a goddamn _smile_. Bond took another breath, turned back to Q. “But believe me, Q, when I assure you that this will not happen again. I deeply regret what I said, and I love you too much to let you go.”

Sherlock was shocked into silence, Q’s eyes widening. John, next door, dropped a pan.

“You love me?” Q asked, almost wondrous.

Bond smiled a little, reaching out a hand to rest on Q’s ankle lightly. “Yes, Q. I do.”

There was more than a small amount of triumph involved in knowing he’d completely trumped bloody Sherlock Holmes, the most annoying protector in the known world. Q slid off the armchair, Bond enveloping him in an embrace with Q’s head buried in his shoulder.

He couldn’t resist a triumphant glance at Sherlock. The man just settled back, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised in an outright challenge. _Until next time_ , his expression said.

A declaration of war. Ah well. Bond had suffered worse.


	52. The Horseriding fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I must say, I’m relativity new to the fandom but I LOOOVE your stuff!! I’ve stayed up late just to get through all of the pages of your blog and I just love everything!! You’re so talented! If you don’t mind I have a prompt: Could you write a thing where Q rides in on a horse bareback (without a saddle) to rescue Bond while on a mission? - anon

It was like something out of a poorly conceived Western.

It was unbelievably, desperately hot. Bright, murderous sunlight. Bond was lashed to a stake, being chanted at by a group of rather frightening middle-aged men and women who wanted to save his soul.

The best part was, it wasn’t even the first time in Bond’s life that this had happened. Splinter religious organisations weren’t always entirely rational, and apparently, tying people to stakes was a speciality.

He really hoped they weren’t planning to burn him.

The chanting became very bloody insistent, and one of them had a hatchet.

Oh, _fuck_ , in short.

Bond closed his eyes. He was going to be hacked to death by religious nutcases. Jesus, but this was turning into a Bad Day, in the most capitalised and emphatic sense of the phrase.

Until, that was, he heard the whinny, the yelling, and opened his eyes to find Q shouting at him. “007, stay very still,” he yelled over the chanting, the horse leaping in a graceful arc through the congregated people. Bond really had no choice but to obey, being tied to a stake, but Q seemed happy; he drew a bloody _scimitar_ , sliced through the bonds behind Bond’s back, avoiding his hands by millimetres.

“ _Get on the bloody horse_ ,” Q yelled at him; Bond glanced around, the chanting people getting _very_ angry, the hatchet looking moments from sailing towards his head. Q trotted in circles, sending chanters flying like dust mites.

Bond threw caution to the wind, and practically _vaulted_ onto the damn horse. Said horse reared, very nearly throwing Bond, who survived by fastening his hands around Q’s middle and hanging on for dear bloody life. No bloody saddle, of course; he started slipping off almost instantly.

“You’re fucking _insane_ ,” Bond yelled, adrenaline causing the sudden effusive cursing. “Q, this is…”

“Shut the hell up,” Q roared; in a move of surprisingly adept horsemanship, Q managed to manoeuvre the thing around, before started a full-pelt gallop away from the chanting people.

Said chanting people stood around looking awkward for a minute, watching the disappearing horseman and their nearly-sacrificed captive, the pair yelling at one another over the racket of hooves and their still-dying chants.

One of them rolled their eyes, and stalked off.

They all dispersed in a matter of minutes, leaving just the wooden stake in the middle of the square, and the echo of horse hooves.

\---

Bond had never really ridden a horse. Once or twice, yes, but never at speed and definitely never bareback; Q, on the other hand, was riding like he’d been doing it for years.

It was a little humiliating, being reduced to just clinging on for dear life while his _Quartermaster_ showed himself to be truly adept. Not to mention that riding bareback was _fucking painful_.

Q smelt good, Bond mused absentmindedly, as they rode across the deserted countryside with Q’s scimitar sheathed in his belt in a way that was rather frightening for Bond, riding behind him.

Actually, he was just gorgeous. His body was mercilessly thin, but beautifully muscled – Bond could feel it through his shirt – and he had a casual confidence that was extraordinary to see.

Bond had never seen somebody bring a horse to a stop as abruptly as Q did, when Bond’s hands started exploring a little more.

Stopping was not a good thing for Bond’s balance. He slid off with an inelegant thump, crashing painfully; Q slithered off with simply unreasonable elegance, standing over Bond with a livid expression. “ _What_ do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, hand a little too close to the scimitar handle for Bond’s liking.

“Q, you saved my life, and you look delightful. I’m a red-blooded man, with a lot of adrenaline. Try to look less affronted,” he returned, raising an eyebrow at Q’s exceptionally unimpressed expression.

Bond picked himself up, pushing his body closer to Q’s, the horse standing around looking decorative. “You’re incorrigible,” Q snapped.

“And you were just _divine_ on that horse,” Bond purred, tugging Q closer, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. “I never thought you could be so… _debonair_.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Polysyllables don’t suit you.”

“Horse riding suits you,” Bond contradicted easily, and leaned in; Q held up a hand, still looking unimpressed, but with a flicker of amusement creeping into his eyes. “Come now, Q. Am I that objectionable?”

“Yes,” Q said, very honestly.

He didn’t pull away, however, when Bond kissed him.


	53. The Q/Eve fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you have the time (good luck with all the prompts, by the way), please can you write a one-sided 00Q one where Q and Moneypenny are in a happy, stable relationship, and Bond’s in love with Q but Q has made it clear in the past that he’s a) straight, and b) not interested. Angsty Bond please! Thank you! - anon

Bond could only watch.

The main consolation was that Q was quite definitely happy. He lit up when he saw Eve, his smile bright and perfectly genuine, the only person who could tear him away from Q-branch without any resentment, or even comment.

Bond let it go, because he didn’t have a choice.

Sexuality, for him, was entirely fluid. It didn’t matter who they were; if he found somebody beautiful, somebody brilliant, somebody with that _spark_ that so few people had – he fell for them, quite entirely.

Q was straight. Vehemently so, quite _defensively_ so, and Bond knew he couldn’t change that.

He had also made it very, painfully apparent that he wasn’t interested either way. Straight or bi or any variation thereupon, he had kindly but unequivocally rebuffed Bond’s advances.

It was when Bond tried again, for the third or fourth time, that Q finally sat him down, and announced that, his sexuality notwithstanding, he simply didn’t find Bond even faintly interesting.

A severe blow to the ego. Bond had rarely had too much difficulty with partners. Ironic, then, that the person he had fallen in love with in an acute, devastatingly painful way was _Q_.

To be fair, if Q had fallen staright into his arms, it was quite possible that Bond wouldn’t have loved him. Part of Q’s appeal was in his detachment, not needing to become attached, refusing to accept Bond’s bullshit and lies.

Bond walked into Q-branch to see Eve bent over Q’s desk, her hands over his shoulders, massaging him with strong fingers.

 He froze, breath catching.

That should have been _him_.

Q either didn’t notice, or was kind enough not to comment. It was painful, immediately and horrendously painful, to know he was being pitied. He hoped that Q hadn’t told Eve; she would be far worse, would probably comment in a gentle voice, and make it utterly unbearable.

“Ah, 007,” Q said contentedly, swivelling out of Eve’s grip, pushing over Bond’s equipment. Eve started chatting amicably with the Q-branch kids as Bond was talked through everything, his heart aching, refusing to let any of it show. “… and try not to die,” Q finished, with a wonky smile Bond would have ended worlds to kiss off him.

“Thank you, Q,” he said instead, and walked each step away from his Quartermaster’s side, a part of him bending to return.

\---

Q smiled as Moneypenny kissed him gently, watching her leave, sighing slightly when he was left on his own.

She was so perfect for him. Intelligent, sharp, a lethal shot, very beautiful. On paper, they really should have worked _so_ well, a very good match.

Q hated that he just didn’t feel anything for her. He cared about her, yes, but in a way like one would do a close friend, or a sibling. Not a lover. The more Q tried, the worse it got, the constant feeling that he was leading her on, while feeling _nothing_.

Seeing Bond, on the other hand, made something twist in his stomach. He didn’t know what it was, and he had no idea if he liked it, but it was different and exciting and new, and he wanted _that_ more than anything else.

He couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. But he couldn’t lie to Eve any more, it wasn’t fair. He texted her, asked to meet after work, somewhere neutral.

This would not be pleasant.

-

Bond couldn’t help but be optimistic, when he and Eve fell apart. Both had survived the breakup surprisingly well; Eve, when asked, simply said it was inevitable. Bond didn’t really understand that, but went to find Q anyway.

“How’re you holding up?” Bond asked conversationally, smiling sympathetically.

Q didn’t look at him. “Bond, I’m not in the mood for this,” he said tiredly. “Just go away, please. I don’t want to deal with you right now.”

“‘Deal’ with me?” Bond echoed, eyebrows contracting. “Q…”

“Please?” Q asked again, head falling into his hands. Bond got the hint, and he walked away without a further word, leaving Q alone to breathe unsteadily, trying to compose himself.

-

Not again. Q couldn’t go through this again.

Q had sworn off any relationships with men, and Bond couldn’t be an exception. It was just too bloody dangerous; the man was a double-oh agent. If anybody was capable of hurting him, Bond was.

He swallowed every thought he could, and ignored the other man’s existence.


	54. The Bondbird fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical Realism AU 00Q prompt: Everyone in the world has bondbirds, similar to daemons only they’re all birds. These birds choose their humans at a young age and a humans know they’ve met their life mate when their bird allows another nest with them. When 007’s bird starts nesting with Q’s, he has reservations but James is pleased and smug. I don’t care what kind of birds they have, I imagine Q’s as some kind of owl but if you want to change it that’s fine. - anon

Q was outside, in the freezing cold, waiting for his bondbird. It was getting absurd; Pythagoras was staying out later and later, reluctant to come when called, seeming very distracted. Q had the uncomfortable, rather frightening feeling he was preparing to settle down.

The problem was, with whom. Pythagoras – an owl, perhaps unsurprisingly – was an independent creature. He had never shown any interest in other bondbirds, even in passing; Q had begun to wonder if he was simply to remain unbonded for the rest of his life, with Pythagoras for company.

He flew down, landing on Q’s forearm, blinking widely. “You’ve found somebody, haven’t you?” Q asked rhetorically, tone almost cross. Pythagoras blinked. “Are you nesting? Hmm? Come on, bring them over.”

Pythagoras gave a loud hoot, taking off briefly; a moment or two later, Q’s face paled as he spotted the goddamn _golden eagle_ soaring towards them. “You are _kidding me_ ,” he rasped. “He’s _twice your size_ , you moronic _pigeon_.”

Q yelped, as Pythagoras dug his talons in. “Yes, whatever,” he grumbled, he and his bondbird watching the eagle glide overhead. “So who…?”

A sharp whistle sounded from behind them. Q jumped, twisting rapidly as the eagle flew downwards, landing on a branch a few feet away from James bloody Bond. “No,” Q said flatly, instinctively cradling Pythagoras. “Bond, just _no_.”

“They chose one another. Nothing to do with me,” Bond pointed out, evidently inches from laughter. “Well then, Q. I suppose this means we should spend more time with each other.”

“My bondbird having an aneurism is _no reason_ for us to suddenly start living in one another’s pockets,” Q said defensively, glaring outright at Pythagoras, while Bond stroked his eagle.

Pythagoras took off from Q’s arm, settling next to Bond’s eagle with a low _hoot_ , expression endearing as he stared at Q. Bond reached out; this would be the moment of truth. If Pythagoras let Bond stroke him, it was pretty much a done deal.

“Oh, you treacherous little bastard,” Q muttered, as Pythagoras hooted softly in Bond’s hands.

Bond just smirked, leaving the birds to hoot sickeningly at one another and walking to Q, looping their hands together. “Hello,” he said gently, greeting Q as more than a colleague, or friend – as a life partner, the man he would be spending the rest of his days with.

Q sighed, letting his fingers link through with Bond’s, only slightly reluctant. Pythagoras watched him, hooting happily when he conceded defeat. “Hello,” he muttered to Bond; the agent smiled softly, his eagle letting out a piercing cry of triumph as he kissed Q gently.

\---

“Zeus. You called your bondbird _Zeus_. Bond, have the psych teams ever addressed your superiority complex?” Q asked drily, as his own bird hooted happily in the corner, on a perch Q had installed in the flat for Pythagoras to sleep indoors.

Zeus couldn’t fit in the flat, or so Q claimed. He was therefore left outside, just outside the window, creating a far better security system for said windows than anything Q could have come up with; Pythagoras continued to look plaintively out at him every couple of minutes, and yet shivered dramatically when the window opened for Q to let him out. The damn thing wanted Zeus in the flat. Q was now just ignoring the plaintive looks, and accompanying guilt he couldn’t help feeling.

Bond watched, not bothering to conceal his amusement. “You called your bird after an ancient Greek mathematician,” he drawled. “Really, I think we’re running level in terms of pretentiousness of bondbird names.”

Q grumbled vaguely as he settled back; Bond hooked his arm over Q’s shoulders, making Q hiss slightly and pull away. “We’re not at that stage yet,” he said warningly, despite desperately wanting to stay close to him on simple instinct. Goddamn _soulmate_ crap. “I don’t like you, Bond.”

Pythagoras objected with a loud hoot, and Zeus shifted on his perch, glancing into the room. Q felt like dirt. Brilliant, he was being guilt-tripped by _birds_. This was getting ridiculous.

“I’m wounded,” Bond commented drily. “And relatively fond of you, as it happens.”

Q let out a soft string of expletives. “I hate everything,” he amended; Pythagoras did the owl equivalent of rolling his eyes. “Hey, I tried,” Q chastised, as Pythagoras emphatically turned away, watching Zeus instead. His loyalties were clearly established.

“Whatever possessed him, I’ll never know,” Q muttered, sinking back against Bond’s arms with far less reluctance than he wanted to admit. Bond just smirked, thumb rubbing gentle circles in Q’s shoulders.

It felt ridiculously comforting, familiar. To Q’s immense irritation, he was actually really enjoying being curled against Bond’s body; Pythagoras shot him an envious look, and Q sighed.

“If I let your bloody bird in, will he trash the place?” he asked Bond, already knowing the answer; the bondbird took after their human. Bond never entered a room without managing to break something inside it. His bird was _enormous_ , and would have Bond’s contempt for physical possessions.

Bond just grinned. Q hauled himself up, opening the window wide enough for a bloody great eagle to hop into his flat. “Yes, you’re welcome,” Q told it sarcastically, as Zeus ignored Q altogether in favour of pouncing towards Pythagoras, shrieking in high-pitched triumph as he was reunited. “That thing is bloody loud.”

“He’s been stuck outside for the last hour and a half, you’d be pretty vocal too,” Bond pointed out, extending arms for Q to return; the Quartermaster was still muttering darkly as he curled up with Bond, protesting against the situation far too much to be believable.

Bond hid his smile in Q’s hair, and winked at the birds. He and Q belonged together; the younger man would get used to it. He snuggled the Quartermaster up close, the action mimicked by Zeus extending a wing over and around Pythagoras’s body, the bird cooing in satisfaction that Q – quite unwittingly – echoed.

\---

Pythagoras and Zeus had vanished into the night, a fact that was making Q very petulant indeed.

It was obvious. Bond and Q both knew. Everybody knew. It was bloody obvious. It was only Q’s stubbornness that meant he and Bond weren’t somewhere in the depths of the night, formalising more aspects of their bond, exploring the physical aspects of soulmates.

Bond shot him intermittent glances, while Q literally sulked, cursing Pythagoras once again for being so bloody stupid. They ate dinner, both studiously avoiding any discussions as to what their damned bondbirds were up to.

When the pair got back, Pythagoras spent the rest of the night dreamily curled against Zeus, sheltered under the larger bird’s wing, _cooing_ intermittently in a way that made Q feel actively nauseous. Zeus and Bond exchanged looks; the former looked absurdly pleased with himself, the other taking on a kicked-puppy expression that made Q feel faintly homicidal.

Pythagoras was refusing to speak to Q, given his behaviour towards Bond. Zeus was too fixated on Pythagoras to care much, but sympathetically cawed at Bond every once in a while.

Bond looked horrendously dejected. “I’m sorry,” Q whined. “I just don’t…”

Pythagoras shot him a dirty look, Zeus blinking a little, making a strangely throttled noise while Bond shrugged. Bloody, conniving bastard birds.

“Do you want to be with me?” Bond asked softly; the birds fell silent, and Q was subject to the weight of three pairs of eyes resting heavily on him, all knowing the honest answer, but depending on Q to actually _admit_ to it.

Q glanced over Bond, eyebrows contracting a little. Bond watched him steadily, blue eyes boring into him, Pythagoras hooting gently under Zeus’s wing as Q sighed. “Bond, of course I do.”

“James,” Bond corrected pleasantly. “First name terms would make this all easier, don’t you think?”

Pythagoras watched him with pure contempt, and Q sighed again. He reached out to Bond, settling in closer, the best concession he could offer.

When Bond kissed him, he didn’t object.

In fact, he did the precise opposite. His body relaxed and tensed all at once, blood flowing elsewhere, everywhere, his mind spinning with Bond, and god, it felt so _right_. Bond’s hands tracked down his sides, the kiss deepening, Q moving to straddle Bond’s body without knowing how in the hell it had happened.

If Q didn’t know better, he could have sworn Zeus _cackled_.

“Away from the birds,” he breathed into Bond’s mouth, grateful for his answering nod.

Every part of Q’s soul was screaming for Bond; he let the older man scoop him into a fireman’s lift, carrying him into the bedroom, kicking the door closed as Pythagoras hooted softly, happily, and Zeus cried joy to the night in vocal style.


	55. The Brainwashed fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva/Q: Silva manages to brainwash Q into believing that they are business partners and lovers. But gradually, Q’s memories come back. Unfortunately, getting his memory back can turn out to be very dangerous for Q.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for heavily implied torture, and very dodgy consent.

Q pillowed his head on his arms, expression sleepy and contented, his lover moving against him with confident movements. His orgasm was an understated thing, Silva’s hand curled around him, Silva’s hips stuttering against him.

Silva pulled out, collapsed to one side; Q nuzzled against him, feeling abruptly scared, whimpering faintly with a type of panic that stuck him marrow deep. His lover hushed him tenderly, rocking him, murmuring repetitive and familiar and comforting word, and Q cried helplessly without knowing why.

 -

Q dreamed of blue eyes, sharp and light and all things between, eyes that glinted and laughed, velvet voice and such immense beauty, and Q dreamed of him and wished for him, with a mounting desperation as the days trickled past, the unnamed saviour who would take him away, would keep him safe, would stop the constant thrumming hurt that lived in the back of his head, a sense that everything was wrong and it would never ever stop.

-

The image of a building. Chrome and metal and glass and marble and screens, everywhere screens, flashing light and code and images, so many images, and ‘Q’ meaning more than a name, meaning something.

 _Yes, my dear Quartermaster_.

Q’s eyes flew open, gasping for breath frantically, trying to focus.

“Quartermaster,” he murmured to himself, the thought feeling clear, truly clear, in a way so very few things did these days.

Silva looked over at him, expression cold, anger living behind his eyes in a way Q had learned to fear. “What was that?” he asked; Q glanced up, wilting, shaking his head quickly.

“Nothing.”

-

Q was staring at a hand-written algorithm, eyes narrowing slightly. It was familiar, very familiar, only not quite. Move a digit or two, amend a very little, and it became something that was wholly his. A safeguard, a way of protecting computer systems.

 _I invented them_.

It didn’t sound like his voice, yet he knew that it was. There was an inherent confidence, arrogance, the shadow of a smile and those eyes again, just for a strangled half-second, between glances at screens and inputting so much information, all the information in the world at his fingertips.

Silva didn’t let him use computers.

He hadn’t missed them, until this moment.

-

Q never voiced discomfort. He didn’t really voice anything, around Raoul. His voice remained unused, a strange, scratchy thing that didn’t feel like own. Speaking was rarely appreciated, unless it was on some aspect of business, but even then, Q tended to have everything written down. Speaking became superfluous.

“My head hurts,” he murmured to Raoul, as he slid into bed next to him, naked. “I don’t… not tonight?”

Silva kissed him gently, and Q didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. He had learned to be still, and let everything happen, or the fear came back with a terrifying vengeance, and he _hated_ being afraid.

Q winced, fingers knotting in the duvet, the grip bruising, thrusts deliberately painful. Silva had noticed, he _knew_ , he had worked out that Q was not wholly _his_ any more, and was taking him back.

Abrupt memory. Pain. _Fuck_. No, please _no_ , not again, don’t make me go back, please, _please_.

Q kissed him, trying to convey that dreamy sense, the contented half-drugged satisfaction that Silva wanted. “Do you need another reminder, little Q?” Silva purred, and Q let out a soft, broken cry of terror. Reconditioning. Silva was going to take him back for reconditioning.

“I don’t… I’m okay, I’m yours, please, _please_ ,” Q whimpered, reticent, how Silva liked him. He had to be what Silva, _Raoul_ , wanted. He had to play the part but keep himself, this time, because he was remembering. He didn’t know _what_ he was remembering, but he knew there was so much to remember, and he wanted it, he was _so close_.

A sharp scratch on his upper arm. Narcotics. Q curled up into himself, vision blurring, blackening out altogether, bright blue eyes watching him with a quiet type of sadness. _James_ , Q thought, with a sudden flash of breathless want. It was James. His James.

Dark.

\---

Q’s eyes flew open, focusing on the ceiling, breathless and panicked and frightened again.

Next to him, Silva grunted in his sleep, arm slung over Q’s stomach; Q breathed as steadily as he could, as so many thoughts tried to instate, tried to focus, there was _so much_ in his head. Blue eyes, bright blue eyes, eyes that would never leave him alone.

Everything seemed distorted by a haze of half-memories. Q swallowed slightly, fingers literally _itching_ ; he needed a computer, a keyboard, needed to type, needed to escape into a world of black and white and answers, solutions, complexities that drew on to a single point, some form of truth.Q breathed, thought. Time ticked past, Silva’s breath heavy. The air was cold and damp, British air, stale wetness and dew and icy oxygen, breath, every breath was new and fresh and tangible.

Silva, his lover, his partner. The man who gave him everything, safety and protection, work, something to stop the whirring thoughts, comforted when he cried, punished him when he deserved it. A lover, a protector, a colleague.

Trying to think about Silva made every emotion from dependence to love to hatred to terror instate all once, making Q whimper despite himself as his brain struggled for any coherency. Nothing felt real.

Q dug nails into his skin, felt the pain, something to tether him to that moment. Images flickered; metal and shining and lights, sounds, low voices and whirring and the click of a dozen keyboards in counterpoint, and a laughing skull _not such a clever boy_ and Silva was looming over him _not such a clever boy_ and somebody’s arms wrapped around him, loose, but steady.

 _It’s all your head, clever boy_ , a voice tells him, a voice that belongs to nobody.

Terrified of everything, Q nuzzled into Silva’s arms, accepted easily, Silva’s arms closing around him like a cage as Q cried in absolute silence, remembering a lullaby from a childhood long-forgotten.

-

Ten days later, staring at the ceiling, insomnia underpinned by voices that refuse to silence.

 _You brought it all back?!_ Incredulous. A voice that is almost his own.

 _Yes, my dear Quartermaster._ Sarcastic and mocking and perfect. A name lingers on the edge of Q’s tongue, and he can’t find it. If he finds it, he knows he will remember, and he is terrified of remembering and he cannot be frightened any more so he tries not to think

 _My god, an old dog can learn new tricks_. Fond, tender. A type of softness that serves more of a purpose than merely insinuating; it coaxes and caresses, loves in the space of short syllables.

 _So it would seem._ A laugh. True laughter. Q isn’t sure when he last heard honest laughter, the type that comes from a shared joke, a communication with another person, no contrivances, no mocking, no unkindness.

James.

_JamesJamesJamesJamesJames_

Q remembers everything at once, in the middle of the night, staring at a ceiling that he has been seeing blankly for so long. It is like somebody has turned on a light; he can see everything now, all the layers, piled on top of one another, and James laughs again somewhere in his head and Q’s heart skips, because he _remembers_.

God alone knows how much time has passed, or where he is, or what is happening. He knows what Silva expects, and playing the part will not be difficult, regardless of memory. If he is reconditioned, he will lose everything again – and he cannot, he _will not_ , lose James again.

 _Remember_ , Q tells himself, again and again. He has to remember, he has to hold onto this while he still can.

Silva stirs next to him, and Q’s stomach churns uncomfortably. This is wrong; everything Q feels for Silva is manufactured, but its _Silva_. Raoul. Days and weeks and months with him, so many hours, _believing_ in him, giving everything to him.

James Bond could be a memory. He could be a dream. Silva could have killed him forever ago, or he could have never existed in the first place, because the person Q knows to be James Bond would never have left him alone like this. James Bond would have come for him.

Q cries in absolute silence, thinking of somebody who may not have ever existed, Silva’s arm looped around him, too-tight.

When there is a noise like half the world has exploded, Silva is awake in seconds. Q cowers instinctively, Silva bundling him into the wardrobe, kissing him gently, telling him to stay exactly where he is and it will all be okay, all okay, my clever boy.

Gunshots and explosions and so much noise, and Q sobs because it is so loud, too loud, so _dark_ , and he doesn’t want to go back.

“Q?”

 _James_.

\---

Q doesn’t speak for a moment, knees tucked up to his chest. A coat fell off a hanger when he was bundled in, and he pulls it over himself, breathing in Silva’s smell and letting himself calm a little.

“Q, are you in here?” the voice asks again, strong and confident; Q swallows slightly, afraid. James is something he only half remembers; James may not exist at all, maybe everything in his head finally snapped, and all that is left is a dark room and the memory of somebody a long way away.

Bond glances around, gun in his hands. Silva has been subdued; their aim is finding Q, and he doesn’t seem to be anywhere.

They have no idea if Q is even alive, but the general expectation is that he must be. Silva is good, but not that good; some of the progressive algorithms were truly unique, rather than Silva’s more derivative works.

It takes a moment for Bond to concede defeat. There are only a handful of rooms, the others have been cleared, and there is no sign of Q.

For a little while, he had honestly believed. He had loved Q so much, when he had still been alive, and yes – he had clung onto every possible indicator that Silva had kept him, for whatever reason.

“Clear in here. No sign,” Bond said aloud, not allowing his disappointment to show through, glancing around the empty room again.

Bond’s heartbeat literally suspended for a moment.

On the bedside table, neatly folded, were a pair of glasses.

Q gave a sudden yelp as the door was wrenched open, somebody silhouetted. He cringed back, coat under his chin, breathing in Silva as desperately as he could.

Bond ducked down, hand extended, his face heavily shadowed. “Q, it’s me,” he said softly, not quite believing it. It was his Q; thinner, certainly, and looking truly exhausted, but very much alive. “Please, Q. Talk to me.”

There was no sound for a moment, Q looking over Bond’s body; Bond stayed very still, as Q lifted a hand out from under the coat he had drawn around him, long fingers brushing Bond’s skin very softly. “James,” he said, voice rasping from disuse, but still Q’s, indisputably Q’s.

Bond’s hands were very gentle, reaching out properly to Q, tucking a hand around his bare shoulders; he intentionally tried not to think about the repercussions of his nakedness, closing the coat around him. He whimpered as Bond plucked him out of his little corner, cradling the young man in his arms carefully.

“M, I’ve got him,” Bond said, with breathtaking quiet. Q kept looking at him, so carefully, so very carefully. “Are you alright?” Bond asked, as Q buried his face in the collar of the coat, yet stared at Bond’s face like he had never seen it before.

Q didn’t speak for a moment. “James,” he repeated, as Bond’s blue, bright blue eyes, so sharp and bright and crystalline. “Where’s Silva?”

Bond’s grip tightened, carefully getting Q through the doorways, a hand sheltering the younger man’s head. “I want somebody to work out what in the _fuck_ he did to Q,” Bond growled aloud, realising he was inadvertently rocking the younger man in a gently comforting way, Q seeming practically a child.

He remembers. He remembers loving. He remembers Silva and Bond and animated skulls and so much pain, and being told what to think, told what to remember. Silva is his enemy, his nemesis, his lover. This is wrong. Everything is _wrong_.

“I don’t understand,” Q whispers, curled against Bond’s shoulders. There are eyes everything, staring, watching him; Q has been alone with Silva for so long, this many _people_ , it makes him feel sick in an immediate, visceral way.

Bond kisses the top of his head, lays Q back; the younger man couldn’t help the softly plaintive cry. He has dreamed of Bond for so long, cannot bear the thought of him disappearing again; strangers start to crowd him, and he shrieks for James, James _please_.

A hushing, gentle lull. Q refuses to relinquish his hold on the coat, nor let Bond out of his sight; the duality isn’t lost on him, but he doesn’t know what to think quite yet so he’ll take whatever he can, do everything he humanly can.

“I’m here,” Bond murmurs, keeping his hand in Q’s. “I promise you, I’m here.”

\---

Bond waited outside the hospital room, blue eyes cold and bleak, sharp, icy.

Q had been taken by Silva eighteen months previously, and Bond had entirely refused to give up. It was a long time to dedicate to another human being, but Bond had lost too many people in his life to abandon somebody like Q. A unique and brilliant young man, with a great deal of life to live.

The medical staff had waived confidentiality to speak to Bond, mainly because he would have hacked them anyway if they hadn’t. Q showed evidence of extensive historical torture dating from the earlier stages of his capture, with some evidence to suggest that it had been intermittently ongoing. He was malnourished, exhausted, but alive. Stable, even. He would be physically fine.

Bond was not surprised by the mention of sexual contact and/or violence, but it was devastating nonetheless. Finding Q in the wardrobe, entirely naked, had been indicator enough.

When Q woke up, Bond was with him in a heartbeat. “Where is he?” Q asked directly, his gaze very clear. Bond didn’t speak for a moment, utterly confused. “Silva. Where is he?”

Silva was in lockdown somewhere in the bowels of MI6. Bond had been banned from going anywhere near, given that nobody was under any illusions as to what Bond would do to the man if given half the chance.

Q looked honestly, truly panicked, in a way that was heartbreaking to witness. “Q, he’s not coming anywhere near you.”

Bond was entirely unprepared for Q to suddenly scream, body curling inwards. “I need him, I’m sorry, I can’t,” he managed, letting out a soft whimper, the scream lingering somewhere in his throat. He flinched when Bond tried to touch, voice a soft murmur. “I don’t want to hurt any more.”

Q’s body was latticed with scars, and always would be. Silva had hurt him until his mind splintered, twisted his memory and perception, made him utterly dependent on the person who continued to torture him. He had gone willingly, unwillingly, to Silva’s bed. He had been unravelled completely.

“I will not let you be hurt again,” Bond said honestly, firmly.

Q looked at him with a gentle, almost patronising smile. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he chided, eyes darting. “Where’s the coat?” he murmured.

Bond’s expression didn’t change. “Gone,” he told Q flatly, noting the sudden contraction of his expression with anger, sadness. “Q…”

A soft hitch, Q pulling his body into a knot as best he could, watching Bond like he could vanish at any moment. “Please don’t go,” he murmured, starting to cry again, trying to keep Bond in his eye line.

He was quiet for a moment, scrunching himself inwards. “I keep forgetting who you are,” he sobbed.

Bond moved himself closer, placed a gentle hand on Q’s hand; he let out a plaintive cry, pulling back, eyes abruptly _huge_ as he watched Bond. “I know,” he said, entirely flat. “I know it wasn’t real, I know I didn’t love him. I know I loved you. I just… I can’t feel it. I can’t feel _anything_. He’s taken everything.”

“Not true,” Bond denied immediately. “You’re alive. Many wouldn’t have survived, but you did, Q. You’re here.”

Q glanced at him, eyes dead, looking him over. Tears were still drying on his cheeks, but everything about him had stopped.

It was absurd. Q looked over the man next to him, recognising the impossibly blue eyes, feeling the sudden lightness of safety, care, attention, that Silva never gave him. This man, this wonderful man, was everything.

Q felt his mind fall to pieces as memory shuffled, reshuffled, aligned and fell apart again.

“I don’t want to wake up,” he murmured, watching Bond carefully, terrified of opening his eyes, to be left with only half-memories of a man named James he didn’t recognise, and such a particular shade of blue.

\---

Q was sat up in bed, watching through the window, blinking languidly and seeing very little. Bond stayed by his bedside as he always was, these days, just keeping close to Q in case the man panicked again. He was trying, but the relapses were frequent, the younger man spiralling out of control in the space of a heartbeat.

“Did I kill her?” he asked quietly, not looking around.

Bond’s forehead contracted in confusion. “Who?”

“M,” Q breathed, eyes closing for a brief moment, opening again. Bond felt a clench of anger in his throat, denied it fervently, steadily.

Q just nodded slightly, and refused to turn around.

-

“I’m sorry,” Q murmured, as Bond woke up; he’d been in the same chair for more or less a week, without moving. Nobody was prepared to release Q from MI6 care yet, not while he was still very unstable.

Bond just shook his head, falling back a little, feeling very tired. “Don’t be.”

-

Q cried in absolute silence, curled up into himself. It was far from a rare occurrence. Bond hushed him, noting the violent flinch when he touched Q’s arm. “I let him fuck me,” Q murmured, the one topic Bond had no idea how to handle, and didn’t want to discuss.

He sighed slightly. “Q, he raped you,” Bond corrected, his heart aching a little. “That…”

“Rape tends to indicate some form of objection,” Q pointed out, glancing up at Bond’s face, down again. “I didn’t.”

“He tortured you, you had to…”

Q let out a strangled cry, cutting over Bond’s words. “Stop it,” he said lividly, sitting up, abruptly _furious_. “This is not something that can be excused or explained. I could understand if I’d crumpled on retaining information, or some aspect of my _job_ , but not me. Letting him do that indicates that some part of _myself_ was lost, somewhere, and I don’t know how to come to terms with that.”

Bond watched him, the younger man curling tightly into himself, crying blankly. “You’re not weak,” Bond told him gently.

Q let out a sharp, disparaging laugh. “My mind was the only thing I had,” he said, suddenly quiet. “I was never that good-looking, I didn’t… I didn’t have anything, except my brain. The one thing that made me unique.”

Another glance at Bond, green eyes empty of life. “I thought it was the one thing nobody could ever take,” he murmured, and shut his eyes, closed himself off.

-

“I need him,” Q whispered, in a voice broken with self-hatred, utter disgust.

Bond kissed his temple gently, didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find any words.


	56. The Moriarty Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m lame at prompts. but what if Moriarty and Q. Moriarty could kidnap Q (but it’s so predictable), so maybe it’s Q who planned it all all a long? or maybe there’s also Sherlock somewhere and they make out something together :) (see, I couldn’t write fiction, I even can’t make adequate request) :) – in-turquoise

Q blinked as the bag was wrenched from over his head; through the haze of myopia, he could still see the flourish. “Good evening,” Q said pleasantly. “I don’t suppose you have my glasses?”

A moment; Q felt a twinge of surprise, as his glasses were tenderly placed on his nose. Q blinked. “Thank you,” he smiled.

“You’re welcome,” the voice said, with a low hum of approval. “Q.”

“James Moriarty,” Q replied, the smile mutating into an all-out grin. “A pleasure to finally meet you. You’re a surprisingly difficult person to track down, I must confess.”

To his credit, Moriarty didn’t so much as blink. “You did send a _charming_ little invitation though, didn’t you?” he purred. “Practically _begged_ me to abduct you – and now here we are. So, little Quartermaster, of what possible use could I be to you?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Untie me, perhaps? And do send Sherlock in, I can smell the smoke from here.”

“Shirley darling, out you come,” Moriarty trilled loudly; Q murmured a soft, dark thanks as the handcuffs clinked, releasing his slightly numb hands. Q’s fingers twitched, coming around slowly to his front. “We’re all friends here, hmm?” Moriarty suggested, head cocking languidly to one side.

“Apparently,” Sherlock drawled; Q turned, noting the tall, elegant figure striding closer, smoke curling in strands around his pale fingers.

Moriarty blew him a kiss, and winked as he beckoned the man towards him. He pulled the cigarette out of Sherlock’s hand, taking a long drag of it; Q watched with distinct interest, as Moriarty pulled the taller man in for a deep, possessive kiss. “Well. You’ve certainly changed your tune, Mr Holmes," Q noted.

“Situations develop,” Sherlock said enigmatically, pulling away from an absurdly smug-looking Moriarty. “That is hardly a concern at present. You are here for a reason, yes?”

Q rearranged himself in the chair, legs crossed casually. “You two are well renowned in your field,” he said, voice light. “I’d be rather interested in assisting. You know I’d be useful, or you wouldn’t have bothered with all this,” he said, indicating the room at large. “This is merely a technicality, hmm? A chance for us to meet, a proper assessment.”

“The Quartermaster of MI6, joining the dark side,” Moriarty murmured, dark eyes glinting, the slight ululations of his head oddly serpentine; Q raised an eyebrow, inclined his head a touch.

“Interested?”

Moriarty and Sherlock exchanged glances. They had, of course, discussed Q at length; the Quartermaster had left signs, indications, that he was watching. The pair of them had been monitored for months. Finally having Q here was, quite simply, delicious.

Sherlock silently reached for another cigarette, while Moriarty bounced with childish joy, a child capable of mass murder. “We’ll see,” he trilled, eyes widening slightly. “My dear Q, we shall see.”

\---

 

Q clicked his neck slightly, feeling alive for the first time in forever, finally set loose on a world that would bow down before him if he merely provoked it.

Moriarty was the type of creature that revelled in chaos of his own making. He set fires, and stood back, just for the enjoyment of knowing he’d done it. He could make things begin and end, and lived for each moment of power he could capture or steal or take or borrow.

 By contrast, Sherlock was a facilitator. He saw everything, reduced the world to so many fables, and knew how to reconstruct them. He saw the liars, more so than Moriarty could; the places, the people, the stories. They lived and laughed and fucked and cried and died, and Sherlock painted each aspect in their blood on the walls, and knew he could never be touched.

Q reduced the entire universe to numbers. From there, it was simple. The right numbers in the right orders, and _governments_ fell. Q could crash the stock market, if he wished.

Q _would_ crash the stock market, one day. He merely waited for the opportune moment, with Moriarty at his side and Sherlock in the shadows, as they always were.

When Moriarty’s teeth and lips trailed over Q’s throat, he couldn’t help the soft laugh; how tremendously _obvious_ , in a way Sherlock simply wasn’t. Sherlock made his existence on being unique and unpredictable; more impressively, he managed it, without exception.

Moriarty’s touch turned gentle, Q allowing himself to enjoy it; Sherlock’s abrupt presence was unexpected, unanticipated, and Q froze for a fractional moment. He was pressed between the two bodies, eyes widening a little. “Playing with the big boys,” Moriarty purred, attacking him abruptly with a kiss that could split skin.

Q smiled, pushing back into it, Sherlock grinding against his arse. “Let me take down _satellites_ ,” Q murmured, sultry and desperate and gorgeous, such a young one, so pretty and young and delectable amoral. They all were; not truly evil, not in the slightest. Merely self-serving. They danced with, for, against the law as and when it suited, flouted childish notions of ‘morals’ with dizzying regularity.

There was a niche, for all of them. A place to be truly powerful, truly unique, truly excel.

Q brought down parts of the Chinese internal servers, and laughed; Sherlock had performed a perfect little assassination, while Moriarty pulled every string, hovered as the most megalomaniac puppet master, stage centre, effortlessly tugging all creatures into his slipstream.

It was truly glorious.


	57. The Mechanic!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> military au: Q’s the brilliant techie/mechanic for a smaller group that’s been absorbed into a larger organization. The new group starts looking at Q in ways that are less than friendly so he makes a deal with the most dangerous member known as James Bond. He promises first choice in new weaponry and priority repairs in exchange for his protection. Even sharing his bed exclusively if it means Q won’t get passed around like a whore. James likes Q’s survival instincts and agrees. – anon

It was probably right up there with the most absurd, and most stupid, things that Q had attempted in his life. Yet, it was definitely safer than awaiting the inevitable.

Bond glanced him up and down, Q trying to retain his usual impassive demeanour and doing a remarkably good job of it. Bond was known to be entirely lethal; their cell, since the war began, was renowned for taking on high-risk jobs with the highest risk of fatality, and surviving. Almost all of their success hinged around James Bond.

Q kept his gaze carefully steady. “I have a proposition,” he said simply, blue eyes burning holes through him. “I can offer my technical expertise; your pick of weaponry developments and upgrades, priority on all repairs, my attention entirely focused on you during missions. I can keep you alive.”

“In exchange for?” Bond asked, tone flat, not quite cold; there was a shimmer of something, a distinct curiosity that Q could work with, if he needed to.

Q took a breath. “Protection,” he explained, that single word covering everything. A cell of fighters and assassins, sharing a confined space, no way to let out their various tensions; since the war escalated, their cell absorbed into a larger army mechanism, Q had lost his allies. He was physically vulnerable, pretty, and painfully aware of the above facts.

Bond knew that too. He had been looking, admiring. Before the war, he had worked for British security, or so the story went, and had a long-abiding reputation over his sexual proclivities.

He didn’t look impressed. Q’s jaw tightened slightly; he took a step forward, moving Bond’s pliant hand to his lower back, pressing against him.

The smirk was unexpected. “You don’t want this,” Bond pointed out, thumb tracing Q’s bottom lip, pink-stained and perfect. “Why offer?”

“Maths,” Q replied simply; Bond raised an eyebrow, clearly missing the full implication. “Better one than eight.”

Well. At least he was honest.

Bond’s hands slid lower, cupping the younger man’s groin, squeezing gently, noting the tight string of Q’s jaw shift slightly. He didn’t look away, didn’t flinch; his green eyes remained coldly steady, daring him to object. “You’re prepared to give me whatever I ask?” Bond purred, breath hot on Q’s face, steaming his glasses a little.

“Yes,” Q replied, with absolute honesty.

Bond stepped back, allowing Q his space, allowing the young man to lose some of the tension that was making his body all but shake. “Alright,” he nodded. “We have a deal. None of them will touch you, and you give me what I want. Come back here this evening, nine will do.”

Q gave Bond a respectful, faintly mocking nod, and walked out straight-backed without another word.

\---

 

Nine o’clock was welcomed with a light tap on Bond’s door; he glanced up, smiling slightly. “It’s open,” he noted aloud, raising his voice a little to be audible. Q slipped inside, locking the door behind him on Bond’s instruction, standing near the door with evident uncertainty.

They simply assessed one another for a moment or two. Bond couldn’t quite believe Q had honestly come. Q was just struggling with the entire situation, but knew he could not show that.

Bond beckoned him closer, and Q moved obligingly; he had a certain elegance that was impossibly entrancing, each motion compelling. Bond gestured to the bed next to him; Q hesitated for only a heartbeat, before settling gingerly on the edge.

He shot Bond a slightly contrived smile. “What can I do for you?” he asked, in his familiar tone, body leaning in slightly. Bond raised an eyebrow at the obviousness of it all.

“Not lie, for a start,” he returned drily; Q sat back instantly, body curling inwards in a manner that was all self-preservation. There was no denying that Q did not want to whore himself out, not like this; he had chosen Bond, certainly, but under duress. “If it weren’t for the circumstances, would you find me attractive?” Bond asked directly.

Q looked at him, expression wholly caged. “Is there any variant of this conversation that will end well for me?” he asked rhetorically, before sighing lightly. “Yes, I suppose I would,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair, not looking at Bond directly.

Bond smiled a little. Q’s words rang true, which was encouraging; circumstances notwithstanding, sex with somebody who found him abhorrent was unlikely to be a very fulfilling experience.

Nonetheless, Q was truly beautiful creature. Bond stripped him carefully, watched for signs of discomfort, was impossibly kind, given the circumstances; Q felt shadows of true disgust, a repulsion that went bone-deep, the disingenuous nature of the whole affair rankling.

-

The sex was very good, but really, Q’s assistance in the coming weeks was far more valued. Bond found himself with all the equipment and technological backup he could ever require, Q’s voice in his ear, guiding him through absolutely everything.

Evenings saw Q in Bond’s rooms, stripping dispassionately, smiling crookedly and returning the kisses with as much passion as he was able.

It was growing harder to be cold, where Q was concerned. Bond began to feel shadows of discomfort, as he thrust into the boy’s pliant body, taking all that he wanted, Q’s expression contracting oddly once in a while, whenever he lost that tight control over himself and let a fraction of emotion slip through.

Another world, perhaps, and they could have been lovers. In an old-fashioned sense; romance, quieter flirtations and dinners, exchanged smiles, deliberately placed comments, inspiring a genuine type of grin from Q and an odd contraction of want from Bond, and they would make it work.

They simply didn’t have the chance. Q had shut down into himself so far that it impossible to know what he did or didn’t want, beyond simple self-preservation, staying alive while physically not well-placed to do so.

Q stayed with him overnight, mostly for safety. It was while unconscious that he began to betray himself; the tightness of fingers around Bond’s arm, the way he leant in closer, childishly desperate for contact from somebody who can – who _is_ – keeping him safe.

Bond pressed kisses to the top of Q’s head, and let the boy sleep.

\---

 

Naturally, not everybody was precisely _delighted_ with the situation as it stood; a collection of soldiers in a confined space, sexually frustrated, barred from the one thing they had wanted. Nobody honestly dared cross Bond, but it didn’t stop the lingering glances, the possessive, predatory looks over Q whenever he was alone.

Q remained carefully wary. Bond was a talisman against most interest, but if he were ever to disappear, the retribution would be monumental. Whenever Q found himself alone in HQ, he ensured he could defend himself, hopefully long enough to allow Bond to get there.

When the door clicked shut, Q’s breath caught for a very slight moment. He didn’t have the time to grapple for anything before fingers caught in his hair, wrenched him out of his chair to let him spill across the floor, gasping slightly at the impact.

The man was angry, bitter. The war had done that to so many people; Q could hardly blame him. He should have been out on the raid with Bond, with the whole unit, but was – inexplicably – _here_.

Q lashed out with all the force he could, easily subdued. A rough hand over his groin, groping him carelessly, led to Q literally _biting_ any part of his body that was in reach.

“Touch him again, and I’ll shoot you,” a calm voice told them both; Q’s head snapped around, eyes very wide, everything stilling for a startled second as he took in the sight of his James Bond, holding a gun, expression frighteningly blank.

Another touch. Bond shot him.

Q’s breath, sounds, were immensely high-pitched as he all but collapsed against the floor, the now-corpse falling back from him. Bond was distracted; he pulled the body into a new position, rifled through the pockets, cursed slightly. He glanced at Q with confused anger. “What the fuck are you sitting there for?” he snapped.

Of course; they couldn’t allow it to seem as though Bond had shot him. That would mean court-marshalling.They needed to cover their tracks.

Q’s head was moving very slowly indeed.

He typed frenetically, amending CCTV while Bond organised the body, managing to get absolutely no blood on him which really, was quite an achievement. He barked the cover story to Q, who continued typing, trying to make his hands stop shaking, informing their superiors that one of their unit had met with something of an accident. They wouldn’t check too closely, they didn’t have the time; Bond and Q together had constructed enough of a cover to keep them safe.

Bond twisted Q’s chair around to face him, the young technician looking a very long way from ‘in control’. “Are you alright?” Bond asked, gruff, but oddly soft.

Q blinked. “You killed somebody for me,” he stated, voice throbbing with disbelief. “He was… you didn’t have to, and you…”

“I promised to protect you,” Bond said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. Maybe for him, it was, but Q could not quite get over the fact that if they had been caught, Bond would have been killed. He had killed somebody, actually _killed somebody_ , for a young man he was simply fucking. The kind of world that had unravelled after the war began didn’t allow care on that level.

Bond wasn’t overwhelmingly surprised as Q slithered out of his chair, into Bond’s arms. Bond tugged the younger man in tighter, letting him burrow into his shoulder, keeping him safe.

\---

 

Bond’s actions had changed his and Q’s relationship beyond all recognition; the dead man had been a colleague, once. Bond ignored all of that, for the sake of Q’s protection.

The sex that night held a passion Q had never managed to capture before; for the first time, he _wanted_ Bond. Or, at least, he wanted to communicate some fraction of his gratitude. It equated to the same thing.

It was the next day that everything started to shift, further than before, even.

Q came to Bond’s room, as always. He had all but moved in; he had nothing in the way of personal possessions anyway, nobody did, and moving the stock uniforms from one room to another was not challenging.

He absentmindedly started taking his shirt off, as usual.

When Bond’s hand landed on his wrist, he jumped a little, looking up at Bond with something like fear. “Not tonight,” he murmured, and fear shot up Q’s spine, electric.

“What do you mean?” he asked, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

Bond smiled very slightly, running a gentle finger over Q’s cheeks, his eyes sadder than Q knew what to do with. It didn’t suit him, somehow.

He didn’t answer, just tugged a very confused Q to the bed, letting him lie down. Q’s body was riddled with tension; this was new, too new. They had a system, a way it worked, and Bond was _ruining it_.

Kisses splayed over Q’s shoulders as Bond’s body curved around him, letting him relax a little. A slight sexual component, a little return to the norm.

That was as far as it went, however. Bond’s arms remained around him, their bodies pressed together, the older man falling asleep while Q remained paralysed, trying to make his thoughts come together and failing spectacularly.

Bond didn’t mention it in the morning, and neither did Q. He woke up feeling ridiculously comfortable; somewhere in the night he’d burrowed closer to Bond, moulded himself to the man’s contours.

He glanced up and saw Bond’s smile, letting the calm remain. “Are you alright?” he asked, as though he could see into Q’s head, find the thoughts lingering in the back of his head.

“This is just…” Q started, brow furrowing. He kept his gaze steady with Bond. “It’s just sex, yes? You just want…”

Bond pressed a gentle kiss to Q’s lips, stopping him mid-sentence, startling him into a slight shiver of confusion.

A moment later, he rolled out of their thin bed, standing. Q remained static, wondering what in the hell _any_ of it meant, alarmed, almost _frightened_ , by the constantly clawing desire to be closer to Bond, to keep him. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Q watched Bond moved, mind working with dizzying speed.

Bond shot him a querying, amused glance. “You may want to get out of bed,” he suggested, with calm that made no damn sense.

Mouth dry, Q nodded, and obeyed.

\---

Q’s eyes lingered, his smile faint, almost questioning. There was a confusion that lived behind his eyes, wary, as though waiting for an unseen axe to fall that Bond could not remove despite his best efforts.

There was important, unmanageable thrumming of distrust. It was impossible to circumnavigate; Q did not trust, perhaps could not, perhaps would not. The point was moot. It forbad them anything more than the superficies of a relationship.

Bond was not overwhelmingly surprised to find the note, folded on his pillow, the indent where Q’s body had lain still warm.

_I will find you when this ends, if you wish me to. Know that I am sorry. You will consider this abhorrent, but I prefer life to morals. I will be forever in your debt. – Q_

Desertion. Q had deserted.

It was with severe difficulty that Bond restrained himself from punching through the wall.

-

Were it not for Q’s promise to seek out Bond again, he would have written off the entire affair as a young boy, trying to survive by any means possible, and consequently being as manipulative as he was able.

Instead, Q’s words lingered. Bond’s memory throbbed with the young man; the moments of truth, when he stopped trying to be what Bond wanted, and instead showed who he was. Q’s truths were so much more beautiful than his lies.

Desertion was a repulsive concept to Bond, enough to make anger blind him for a while. He had always been lethal in combat; this reached stratospheric new heights, his anger translating into a violence that stood to shatter everything in his path.

Curiously, he was very lucky throughout. Cameras failed. Security systems were offline. Everything he owned, meanwhile, was in perfect working order – and replacements arrived without warning, new pieces deposited where only he would find them, or delivered by messengers who had never met Q himself, but followed orders regardless.

He supposed it was Q, his penance, in some way. He avoided the true chaos of war – the bomb strikes, the raids, the constant threat to life and safety – and had found somewhere to hide until it was all over. A coward’s way out, but then, Q had never claimed to be brave.

Bond avoided death as he always had. Luck, strategy, skill. Several near-misses, and more kills than he cared to count, but he lived. He always lived. He made something of a habit of consistently, immortally living.

When things died down – as, of course, they had to – Bond let himself be alone for a while. Years of war. Fifteen months, since seeing Q in person, and the boy still lingered in the back of his head. The anger had died to a low simmer, a burn that still ached, but was mostly scabbed over now.

Bond had no idea what the world looked like, outside of the military, in a world rent apart by war. This was not his world, any more.

Q, of course, would know.

“Find me,” Bond said, directly to the first camera he came across, five months after the war had ended. His cell had been disbanded, a collection of renegade soldiers left to fend for themselves, roaming the earth as though they understood what to do there any more.

It took two days.

Bond opened his eyes, feeling the presence in the far side of the room, watching him. “Why are you here?” Bond asked, without preamble.

A soft smile.

“Because you asked,” Q replied, very simply, and wasn’t that just right. Everything, from the very start, from the moment they’d slid into some pseudo-something that wasn’t quite a relationship, wasn’t quite love, wasn’t quite mutual convenience. It was everything and nothing, and all Bond had _ever_ needed to do was ask.

The laughter all but consumed him, as soft hands pressed to his skin.


	58. The Marvel Slave Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your writing’s brilliant! Love how much thought you put into filling prompts. If you’re not too busy, could I bother you to write one in which Bond is a Roman soldier passing by and mistakes Q for Tony’s slave, and tries to barter for Q. Tony, of course, goes along for the ruse. Thank you! – anon

The merchant with the peculiar metalwork was known, of course. Some form of inventor, universally mistrusted given his curious accent, shocking words. Bond didn’t tremendously care for or about him.

He did, however, care tremendously about the young slave that trailed behind him, looking tired and slim and immensely beautiful. Foreign, almost certainly; that kind of paleness was unusual, the eyes a unique and beautiful shade as they darted up towards Bond curiously, and back down again.

Bond reached out, fastening a hand around a slim wrist. “Hey,” Tony said sharply, looking around at Bond.

“I’d like to purchase your slave,” Bond said clearly; the boy blinked, eyes abruptly widening. Stark burst out laughing. “I don’t see how that is amusing.”

Stark collected himself, trying to school his features into something more serious. He was only here because of a massive cockup in one of his experimental machines; in sum, he had catapulted himself through a wormhole, and landed in Roman times. With the Quartermaster of MI6, who – unlike Tony – had never learned Latin in school.

They needed to find a few component pieces of Tony’s device, before presumably getting the hell _back_ to the twenty-first century. Either that, or Thor would try and coerce Loki into navigating a wormhole and plucking them back. Either way, it wasn’t for long.

Q had, of course, been mostly mute. He’d picked up basics of language quite quickly, but his accent was horrendously Gaelic – Tony’s was unrecognisable, fortunately – which meant few people were likely to be kind to him.

And now, it would seem, a Roman version of Q’s favourite double-oh agent was attempting to _buy him_.

“Two thousand denarii,” Bond offered; Tony’s eyebrow raised. It was a good deal of money, could potentially help him source a good enough power supply for his device; people responded to money better than threats.

“No less than four,” Tony replied, with a casual smirk. Bond just raised an eyebrow, Q glancing at Tony in absolute shock. “Not a word,” he warned Q, who shot him a lethal glare, and returned his sights to the floor.

“No. Two and a half,” Bond bartered back; the pair continued for a handful of minutes, Q shaking his head slightly as his _price_ was negotiated. They landed on three thousand, two hundred – very expensive, for a slave, but Tony was nothing if not a good salesperson – and thus, Q changed hands.

He had been sold to his boyfriend’s Roman doppelganger. Bond was _never_ going to let Q live it down.

\---

 

“Q, you have to be honest with me.”

Q let out an irritable sigh, while Stark continued to snort with laughter; the entire affair had been just _embarrassing_ for Q, not to mention that Loki – when he’d got there – had seen Bond, and assumed he was the same man as had been harassing him in the twenty-first century.

Thus, Q was now in the middle of Stark’s work lab with two versions of his boyfriend from divergent time periods, a Norse god, and the most irritating man alive. “Give him a break,” Tony called over, while Loki purred something in his ear, making him smirk.

“You sold my boyfriend to a Roman soldier,” Bond returned lividly.

Q just rolled his eyes. “Bond, calm down.”

“Recte?” asked Bond’s double in Latin, looking distrustfully at his mirror image, lip curled in a faint snarl. Q waved him off with a handful of words in Latin, to Bond’s immense surprise; Roman-Bond seemed vaguely placated, backing down for a moment.

“You should put him back,” Tony pointed out to Loki. “Twins are hot and all, but really…”

Loki listened, smirked, doubled himself, making Q blink in surprise as he noticed from out the corner of his eye. Stark failed to conceal a growl of want.

Bond – and Roman-Bond – looked over in alarm, looking at their counterpart before looking back. “Is that…”

“My trick,” Loki purred, smiling slightly, breath cold against Tony’s jaw. He straightened, stalked to the false version of Bond, hooking a hand in his collar; he was very nearly punched in the face for his trouble, exceptional reflexes allowing him to duck out of the way.

Bond moved forward, catching his double’s wrist, the pair engaging in a blindingly quick fight; Q rolled his eyes, dragged _his_ Bond backwards, murmured ‘vale’ to the other. The other Bond had enough time to look very startled, before Loki grabbed him, and vanished.

“You idiot,” Q muttered to Bond, shaking his head. “He meant perfectly well.”

The latter watched Q carefully, while Stark tried to quell the now-raging hard on that two versions of Loki had given him. Q just smiled, lifted a hand to Bond’s cheek. “Slaves were not always treated well,” Bond pointed out, voice dark.

Q’s lip quirked in a smile. “You’d never hurt me,” he said, with all the confidence in the world. They were not the same person, not by a long shot, but Bond’s counterpart had many traits in common; Q was safe, with either party.

Bond kissed him gently, lovingly, and pretended not to check him over for any injuries that hadn’t been there before .Better safe, after all.

\---

 

Loki was all but fucking Stark by the time Q managed to get to him; with mild disgust, he pulled the god away from his prize, met with electric green anger. “How may I assist?” Loki hissed, all angles.

Q raised an eyebrow. “What happened to him?” he asked calmly. Loki raised an eyebrow, heaving a slight sigh.

“To whom?” he asked, sing-song. Q’s expression was merciless, inspiring a pretty little smile from the god, a mockery. “Ah. The duplicate?”

Q’s mouth moved in a faint snarl. “He cared about… about me,” Q said, forehead contracting with something like guilt. Loki remained steady, unrepentant. “Just let me know he’s alright?”

Loki turned to Tony, smirked slightly, vanished.

Bond moved to Q’s side, his presence familiar, steady. “Where’s he gone?” he asked in a low voice; Q gave a slightly helpless shrug, glancing around as though expecting Loki to reappear somewhere else in the room for no explicable reason.

It was far better than that.

Loki re-appeared with another Roman, whom he had by the scruff of the neck. The boy toppled forward a bit, wide-eyed, staring around like a rabbit in headlights before seeing Q, and screeching.

Q had a relatively similar reaction, actually. “Jesus _fuck_ ,” he managed, while his mirror image managed a series of very similar curses in Latin. Q twisted on Loki, his counterpart propelling himself towards Bond without a moment of hesitation. “Why the _hell_ did you bring _him_ here?!” Q yelled at Loki.

Loki smiled smugly, glancing between them, his expression almost innocent. “You sought confirmation of the initial duplicate’s happiness,” he pointed out. “He is it. Your ancient double found his version of you. Almost romantic, would you not agree?”

The Roman Q was clinging onto Bond’s ankles, while Bond looked at him like the thing was an alien, designed for his torture. “Shouldn’t we take him back?” he asked Loki, with a tone that boded badly for the god.

Stark was all but pissing himself laughing, something that made Loki visibly smirk. “We could test the boy’s durability in a foreign clime,” Loki suggested, with a predatory smile at Q. “You did so valiantly, after all.”

“Take him back,” Q ordered, in his best Leadership Tone; Loki raised an eyebrow, inches from outright laughter.

Stark was the one who took pity, thankfully. “Stop teasing the kid, and we can go someplace private?” he suggested; apparently, the god’s sex drive outweighed his desire to cause mischief.

The Roman Q was once again grabbed by the scruff of the neck, yanked off Bond’s ankles, and vanished.


	59. The Prison Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Q in detention, please? The guy did some very treacherous things for Bond in Skyfall, he deserves at least some days locked. Thanks! – anon

Tanner felt like a rabbit caught in headlights, as Q abruptly swore. “What happened?” he asked calmly, tension climbing up his spine.

They had spent the previous day throwing out breadcrumbs to Silva. Now, M had been reported dead and – as Q told him a moment later – the PM _had_ found out. In practise, they were now responsible for M’s death, had defied MI6 protocol and betrayed their country. “Go. Now,” Q ordered. “You and Mallory cannot be implicated. Mallory is the most likely replacement for M, he’d be good, we can’t afford for him to be lost.”

 “You’re our Quartermaster,” Tanner pointed out, voice oddly tentative, unusually. “We can’t…”

“R will replace me. With Mallory’s testimony, yours, probably Bond’s… I shouldn’t be gone long,” Q said carefully, breathing a little too lightly. He was taking the full fall, accepting all responsibility. “With luck, Mallory will even pull strings. Tanner, _go_.”

He left, and Q made himself the last really good tea he’d have for a while.

-

Prison was fucking _frightening_.

Q had, of course, been put in a low-key institution – that was probably an intervention from somebody in his branch, somebody he would be thanking relentless when he got back – and was essentially waiting for somebody, _anybody_ , to bail him out.

At his height and weight, he screamed vulnerability. Prison was not somewhere he had ever expected to end up in his life, he’d been very careful to avoid it across all of his various hacking ventures. Prison was indicative of a failure, which really rankled when Q had essentially fallen on his own sword to keep MI6 running under a competent leader.

The routine was simple, the time spent around other inmates was not. Q trod a thin line between being utterly invisible, but not seeming vulnerable; a difficult feat, but when he was physically overwhelmed, it was best to be tactful. His IQ easily outstripped his comrades, but making any indication of that fact was potentially suicidal.

Q curled up in the corner of his cell, watching junk television on a tiny screen, keeping a careful eye on the door.

\---

The morning dawned on a dimly cold type of sky, the type that the UK is renowned for; Q was outside for the compulsory exercise session, absolutely freezing, hating the world and everything in it.

He could have sworn he saw a familiar figure. Blond, muscular, tall. The type of musculature Q had studied, known those hands closed around a handgun, calculated weight ratios and dexterity as pertained to different forms of handgun.

A heartbeat later, the figure vanished. Q put it out of his mind as wishful thinking.

-

Q was eating a surprisingly palatable potato with coleslaw, when a shadow crossed over his table. “Hello.”

A sharp glance upwards; Q was endeavouring to be invisible, after all.

Bond smiled very slightly, looking worryingly at ease with the whole environment. “You are aware that you are about twenty-four hours from being jumped in the toilets?” Bond commented lightly, spearing coleslaw. “The strong and silent type only works if you’re strong.”

“What in the fuck are you doing here?” Q asked, in a low hiss. This was not the plan. This was quite unequivocally not the plan.

A slight laugh, a grin. “It’s a pleasure to see you too. I never thought I’d say I like you in the cardigans, but comparatively…”

Q rolled his eyes. “You’re in _prison_ , criticising my dress habits?” he asked drily, glancing Bond up and down. “Quite seriously, why are you here?”

“Somebody had to look after you. I pulled babysitting duty,” Bond teased, causing a genuine growl from Q. “Don’t be so upset, M meant well. Prison is not a good place for those weighing the same as a ten-year-old girl.”

This was going to be hell.

“Any news on when I’m getting out?” Q asked, with mock politeness, wondering if he could get away with pinning Bond’s murder on another inmate. “Charming though you are, I have a life to lead.”

Bond grinned. “You think I’m charming?”

Q narrowly resisted the urge to throw his entire bloody _plate_ at Bond, stabbing the potato with a little more force than was strictly necessary, quietly grateful – and would rather die than admit it – for having Bond there.

“A week or two,” Bond told him, finally relenting.

Q shot him an almost-genuine smile. “Thank you, Bond,” he replied quietly, annoying himself with how much he liked the colour of Bond’s eyes in the cafeteria lights.

\---

Well.

He wasn’t quite jumped in the toilets.

However, when a large balding man convicted for GBH pressed Q up against the shower wall when Q was trying to be innocuous, it was nevertheless unpleasant. Predictably, Q squirmed and kicked as the man mocked everything, including his size, athletic competence, and even – unfairly – his hair colour. Q managed to land a few blows before realising he was quite dramatically outclassed.

Bond’s voice was low, almost casual. “Really wouldn’t recommend that,” he informed the man, grabbing him by the back of his neck, squeezing painfully; Q was momentarily startled, slipping out of the man’s grip and trying to cover himself while getting water in his face.

“Didn’t know he was spoken for,” the man replied with a thin smirk, trying to break Bond’s hold.

Much to Q’s surprise, Bond reached out, snagging Q’s wrist and wrenching him in closer. “What…”

 “Clearly,” Bond growled, as Q noticed with no small degree of alarm that he was in a _shared shower_  with James Bond, fighting off some other random prison occupant,  _all three_  entirely naked. “The kid’s mine, now piss off.”

Q was honestly in too much shock to do anything other than blink. Bond released his assailant after several deft, quick punches which were designed to hurt but leave no real damage, and the man scurried away with an impressive series of apologies. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes,” Bond commented dryly.

“Thank you,” Q managed,  _don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look… holy shit, that’s impressive._  “For your assistance.”

Bond’s smirk was encroaching Cheshire cat territory as Q attempted to subtly turn away. “You’re welcome,” Bond replied, reaching past Q for some shower gel. Q was relatively certain his blush was extending halfway down his back by now. “Though you realise you will now officially be my bitch?”

Q almost choked as Bond laughed. “That’s… I’m  _not_ , I  _refuse_  to…”

“A cover Quartermaster,  _honestly_ ,” Bond told him playfully, slapping Q’s arse to torment the younger man. Q was blushing furiously and he practically  _squealed_  as the blow landed. “It will keep you safe.”

“I’m out of here within the month,” Q tried, as Bond rubbed foam across his perfectly toned body, torso, legs…

Q dragged his eyes away quickly. “What’s the point?” he asked, with faint desperation.

“Avoids that happening,” Bond shrugged, looking over to where Q could well have been made an interesting victim. “Either way, it’s done. They won’t expect me raping you in the corridors. Just play along.”

Q nodded mutely.

His earlier assessment was turning out truer than ever: this was going to be hell.


	60. The Serial Killer!Bond Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m really in the mood for something dark and twisted so, serial killer!bond au? Bond fancies the computer nerd he found in a coffee shop, not in a make him one of his victims way, and brings him all kinds of gifts. It shows how much Bond likes him since all the gifts are the prizes he took from his victims. Q thinks James is a little odd but has no idea where the gifts come from. – runemarks

Q glanced up, raising an eyebrow at the man who slid into the chair opposite him. “Can I help you?” he asked lightly, minimising a few windows on his computer for security’s sake.

The man was blond, well-built, refined. His eyes were a sharp blue, and he moved with a type of extraordinary elegance. “Would you like a refill?” he asked in a voice like molten velvet, nodding at Q’s empty mug.

Q glanced over him, a shy smile growing. “That would be lovely,” he nodded, watching as the gorgeous man slid to the counter, ordering another of whatever the ‘young man at that table’ was drinking, and a double espresso.

“James Bond,” the older man told him, placing the tea in front of him; Q smiled, again, closing it in long fingers.

“Q.”

-

The blood was coating his shirt, but the jacket covered it neatly. Bond didn’t have time to get changed; Q would be back, and he wanted to see the pretty young man again. He was more interesting, something to clarify focus.

Q looked slightly shocked at Bond’s gift – a pair of cufflinks, taken from a man Bond had killed over four months ago – and thanked him regardless, blushing a little.

Bond couldn’t help but imagine the blood arcing from the young man’s throat, in an unquenchable stream, hot and red and intoxicatingly beautiful, the eyes turning glassy, marbles of perfect green.

No. Not this one.

Not yet, anyway.

-

Bond continued to bring presents, and Q grew rather used to them; they were pretty things, useful things. Various trinkets that fitted him perfectly, like the cufflinks he wore next time he saw James, the soft leather wallet that replaced his own almost immediately.

It was weird. They barely knew one another. Yet Q accepted the little gifts, accepted Bond quite completely.

His eyes scanned over a picture of a man, who had been found dead a few days previously. The police were looking for anybody with information.

The man was barely out of his teens, average-looking. The photograph was him at a wedding – the wedding he had been at, before disappearing – wearing a silvery tie, a terrifyingly _familiar_ silver tie.

Q’s stomach plummeted.

He had to be wrong, he absolutely _had_ to be wrong.

Bond smiled, bought him another Earl Grey, slid over a tie clip to go with the tie from the previous week. Q’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, thanking him anyway, voice a little quieter.

Q didn’t notice the blue gaze turn mercilessly sharp.

\---

 

Naturally, something had to be done. Q was an astute young man, perhaps too much so; his mind worked a little too quickly, reached conclusions faster than Bond had known from anybody.

It was simple, ultimately. The fear receded after a week or two, Bond’s gifts turning less obvious; a few trinkets from murders he’d conducted further afield, things that would be nigh on impossible to trace.

When he asked if Q would like to go back to his flat, the boy hesitated. Bond remained wholly impassive, a glint in the back of his expression that would not survive close examination, waiting.

Q extended a hand, let Bond lead him on. As they walked, Bond slid an arm around Q’s waist, noting the blossoming smile from the young man; he liked being taken care of, liked to be notice. People like that are frighteningly easy to manipulate.

Bond’s flat was neutral, almost cold. Q looked around with interest, fingers brushing, lingering. Naturally, killing required a deftness, a subtlety; there were no obvious hallmarks, no indications. This was Bond’s domain, his little sanctuary, from which he could survey the world and paint it in blood.

It was unfortunate, that Q was quite so clever. The emerald in his eyes was extraordinary, so perfect, so very crystalline. Bond could see the fragility in his white throat, the veins pulsing beneath the surface, so much _life_.

A sharp knock to the back of the head, and Q was unconscious.

It was a shame to not kill him, but Bond had been seen with him too much. Their little coffee shop, their understated pseudo-dates; it would trace back to one person, and Bond could hardly afford that. Such a pity. The red against the white against the black against the emerald would have looked so glorious.

Instead, he could be kept. Perhaps utilised. Fear is a useful incentive, particularly when mingled with affection; Q was very malleable in that respect, easily shaped to Bond’s specifications.

The reaction was predictable, when the boy woke; anger, fear, upset. Passionate, simple emotions. All of this was just a little too easy.

“I was right,” Q murmured, after a while. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked, a little stronger, no tremble in his tone.

Bond’s mouth crooked in a smile, ducking down in front of Q, stroking strands of hair behind his ear. “Why would I want to do that?” he asked softly, and pressed a simple kiss to Q’s forehead.

\---

Q watched him with his eyes that perfect shade of green, all worry and fear, so thick it was a near-tangible entity and he looked so, appalling beautiful that it made something in Bond feel inexplicably, gloriously _satisfied_.

Bond outlined his thoughts, allowing the full implication to register with the bound young man. His eyes went a fraction wider, tension riddling his jaw – the same tension Bond found in the stoic ones, the ones who were determined to die nobly – and he refused in a voice that was pure, endearing gallantry.

Quite right. Q was a creature of morality, which is _far_ more interesting. Morals can be bent, however. Broken.

After all, anything can be broken, human beings included. It is simply a case of finding weakness, and applying pressure.

There would be no point in targeting Q’s family, or his body – those things did not matter to him, Bond knew that. He had no family, and his mind mattered infinitely more than his body ever would.

Bond showed him the beauty of it all. A simple horizontal cut across Bond’s own abdomen; Q watched with horror, with rapt attention, with confusion and interest and so much conflict – more complex emotions now, importantly so – as blood slid across his stomach, the sting of pain almost unfelt.

The human mind is a conundrum, but basically formulaic. Within a certain society, and more specifically within subgroups, the mentality is easily dissected; the human mind consists of what it learns. If you are able to unravel what is learned, you cradle the building blocks of the human psyche.

Q works on a high intellectual basis. He needs the specificity. Point a, point b, the progression.

In this case: there is something entrancing about blood. If you strip away human sensibilities about pain and harm and horror, you are left with the simple, intoxicating wonder of a substance upon which every single species in the world depends. Over three hundred and fifty _billion_ litres of blood in the world, in humans alone. It is life.

It is spilling, and it is intoxicating.

Bond took his time to demonstrate it. Gaudy demonstrations of lurid murders are dull, show a basic disrespect for the magic that creates a truly perfect kill; Bond left that evening, having analysed his blood, the results placed in front of him for Q’s analysis. The boy was tied to the radiator with the expression of somebody so terrified he was almost nauseous.

That would fade, soon enough.

When he returned, Bond analysed his blood again, When he returned, Bond analysed his blood again, placed the results in front of his young charge. Q’s eyes widened again, in the manner Bond was becoming quietly used to.

Spikes in endorphins, adrenaline. Irrefutable physical indications that he enjoyed it, that it was pleasurable in a way Q could barely imagine.

He would know. He would understand.

Bond smiled slightly, head crooked to one side. He needed to arrange an easy kill. Find a way to make it start.

Q remained steadily still, doing precisely as he was told, compliant in a way that was purely defiant. There was so much still to do.

Oh, but this was _fun_.


	61. The Zombie Apocalypse Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s the zombie apocalypse. It’s Bond and Q against the world, except Q was bitten. Q is slowly turning and Bond is unwilling to kill him. And as added angst, the people-turned-zombies still have awareness of their actions, though they have no control over their body. So much love for your writing, and it would be lovely if you could write this. Thanks! – anon

Q shook slightly, body trembling as the infection continued to work through him, taking him apart and twisting him into something unrecognisable.

Bond watched him with a stony expression. He knew what was coming; there was no antidote, not yet. The virus stormed through the human body, freezing the heart, keeping neurological functions running in a desperate need to consume and survive. It sought out others, transference, the virus taking on a force of its own as it prepared to take over everything it found, targeting anything with a pulse, changing the world to its template.

When it had first begun, MI6 was hell. A confined space, easily locked down, entrances and exits too easily cramped. A single employee in H-branch, and the rest fell in stages, cascading towards Q-branch. The virus took forty-eight hours to fully establish itself, and it spread unbelievably quickly; by the time reports came through of an epidemic, it was mostly too late.

R caught Q’s wrist, nearly tearing a chunk out of it; Q bellowed in pain, wrenching his arm back, running as fast he could manage. It was almost impossible to tell who was or was not infected, who was fully turned; they looked the same, they merely responded differently, their eyes dead, skin paler than normal.

He got home, to find Bond holding his gun, guarding their flat.

Q held up his bleeding wrist, eyes glossy. Bond let him in anyway, let the terrified young man curl up in his arms, sobbing, already aware that he was going to lose himself.

He asked six hours later. “… I don’t want to be that,” he murmured, looking at the underground TV channel broadcasts that had sprung up, giving details of the zombies. There were still some unaffected, people who were trying to keep the world running in the face of chaos. “I don’t want… James, I can feel it already.”

“What do you mean?” Bond asked quietly, looking to his lover.

Q watched him with sad, muted terror. “I keep looking at you, and don’t… I know who you are, and I still… there’s this instinct, this _need_ to attack… I don’t want to eat any more, I know my pulse is slowing… James, please. I’ll hurt you. I don’t want to. I don’t know if I’ll keep this level of cognisance, but they’re theorising that the infected retain themselves, somewhere beneath the virus…”

“I won’t kill you,” Bond told him flatly, voice plate glass. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“You’re asking it of me,” Q returned quietly, and Bond just looked away.

-

Q continued to watch Bond with an expression that wasn’t his own, refusing to allow Bond near him because he losing control of himself in incremental stages.

It got to the stage of Q simply begging Bond to kill him, _please_. “It won’t let me kill myself,” Q told him, in a voice that broke Bond’s heart. “I tried.”

Bond glanced at him sharply, horrified. “Don’t you dare,” he growled. “There will be an antidote…”

“Maybe one day,” Q shouted back, tearful and desperate. “In a day or week or a month, but I don’t _have_ that long. I can’t afford to wait, and you won’t be able to heal it before it’s a long way too late.”

“I won’t kill you,” Bond told him, again, and Q leapt at him in an uncoordinated, sloppy kind of way. He hit the cabinet, felt nothing, continued closer as Bond backed off incredibly fast.

Q abruptly stopped, collapsing inwards, letting out a sharp scream as his body spiked with pain. He tried to control himself, his breathing slowing, stilling, remaining in the middle of their flat with Bond tensely watching him, Q trying not to kill him.

Neither of them spoke.

-

Bond disappeared. He was good at that.

 _I will find an antidote. Fight it as much as you can. Be safe_.

Q read the note with bleak eyes, dead eyes. Everything in him was dying, piece by piece, he could see it going. Falling away from him, as the virus raged through his body, destroyed him from the inside out.

He clutched James’s final words between thin fingers, grip turning cold, heartbeat slowing, everything slowing, stilling.

Stopping.

\---

The shelters, the camps, sprang up quickly; it was very easy, actually, to find one and blend himself in. Bond was quickly raised through ranks due to his specific skillset – he could defend the camp better than most, and had the suicidal streak needed to leave for supplies when required – and it worked.

Communications were mostly online, although difficult from time to time. The unaffected had organised themselves with breathtaking speed, people deployed up and down the country to keep power stations working and defended, keep vital communications live in case an antidote or vaccine or _anything_ was discovered.

First rumours of an antidote hit two weeks after Bond arrived. Bond took little time establishing precisely _where_ the teams were based, before informing his camp that he was leaving.

In his pocket, a small device remained, a GPS tracker, moving intermittently, slowly.

Bond had made a promise, and entirely intended to keep it.

-

It took very little time to get there. Bond merely had to get himself out of the camp – not an easy feat, when surrounded by zombies – and commandeer a car. The roads were wholly empty, thus allowing Bond to break every conceivable speed limit without a care in the world.

The R&D camp had been warned about Bond’s arrival; he picked off several zombies with direct head shots, scaling the wall and dropping into the forecourt of what was once a university building. He was met with more guns than he had seen in a long while, and subjected to a number of searches for bites before he was allowed in.

“The antidote is in theoretical stages,” the lead scientists explained, in as simple English as they were able. “We have no way of testing it, but frankly, it’s the only viable option. The virus is specific to human beings; we need a test subject, but extracting one of those outside…”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Infect somebody in here with the virus, place them in a secured room. You can track the decline, test the antidote when they’ve turned. You’ll then have a subject for any future antidotes, if the first doesn’t work.”

A sharp, bitter laugh from the scientist. “Yes, people are just queuing up to be infected with the virus…”

“Me,” Bond said simply. “Infect me.”

-

The first day was easy.

The tracker remained in Bond’s pocket. He watched it, every once in a while; whenever it moved, it confirmed that Q was still out there, somewhere. He could still be saved.

Bond’s only condition of testing the antidote was that when it was confirmed, they found Q first. He was met with a series of pitying glances, and didn’t honestly care. This was all for Q. It always had been.

As time ticked forward, Bond felt himself go, and tried to hold onto Q. The memories of him, his smile and his laugh and his sharp comments and intelligence and beauty. He clung onto it as much as he could, as his eyes started to turn dead, unfocused, the slightly milky film collecting to obscure his usually bright blue eyes.

The thump of his heart had been gradually slowing from the outset.

It stopped.

-

Bond was subjected to the bizarre sensation of being entirely split off from his body and brain. He could see, hear, touch – but control none of it. His impulses and actions were not his own, even if his thoughts were, and they continued to run and run, a trapped scream, the understanding that he had been sliced away from himself while the virus took over his physical body.

The antidote was aerosol dispersion. Now he was turned, they would be using the antidote at any moment. The time to discover whether he would ever be breaking free from the enclosure that currently remained around every thought, or if he was to forever be forced to see himself lunge for everything alive, try to consume it, tear it to shreds with his bare hands.

For the first time in his life, Bond was honestly, actively scared.

He wanted to see his tracker, but could not. The virus stopped any control. He prayed for an accident, for the swing of a body around, to accidently cast eyes just so he could know, could see that Q was still safe somewhere, not ‘alive’ in the strictest sense, but _there_.

A sharp spray of something, into the air around him.

Pain lanced like lightning.

\---

Bond’s control returned in gradual increments. He was abruptly – impossibly – able to move his own fingers, hands, spreading along his arms. Within a few minutes, he could grapple for the GPS, noting with relief that the dot was still in motion, and he was coming back, truly coming back.

The sensation of his heart starting to beat again was more painful than Bond had words to describe. His body had technically died, if only for a few minutes, and trying to make blood and organs move again was unbelievably painful.

It would be torturous for somebody who had been dead for longer, of course. Bond knew that. Quite frankly, the pain would probably be enough to kill some weaker people, if their minds could not handle the strain.

Q, though. He would be alright. He had to be.

As promised, Bond was supplied with an antidote. “Bond,” a voice interrupted; Bond turned, eyebrows contracting. “The antidote only kick-starts the body. If there’s nothing left of the mind – and we don’t know for certain if there is, after prolonged exposure – than it won’t work. Your Q has been infected for a long time.”

Bond nodded his understanding, and vanished.

-

A few hours brought Bond to Q’s location. A handful of zombies, ambling in circles, seeking down anything living.

Q was inhumanly pale, gorgeous green eyes milky and unfocused, blood coating his mouth and dripping across his chin, down his front. He was the embodiment of everything Bond had ever feared.

For the first and only time, a part of Bond prayed Q was not still in there. The zombies killed, ate, dismembered with their bare hands. Q would deal with that very badly, if he was still conscious.

A handful of medical officers had gone with Bond. Some were there to simply observe, others had blood and IV’s, in case Q’s body could not quite make the transition back into life without help. After so much time, parts of his body could be all but falling apart, his blood stale. If Q survived, it would be a first, but at least they could confirm it was possible.

Bond breathed out. They needed to lure Q out, away from the others. The plan involved multiple noises, splitting attention, and Bond would dart in whichever direction Q went.

The noises came in a circle, and the zombies obediently shuffled in their various directions. “Heading east,” Bond relayed, darting as fast as he was able, until the others were a good distance away.

Q reeked of blood, decay. He lunged at Bond the moment he saw, a raw, throttled sound coming from his throat, blood and thin strings of flesh visible beneath his nails, red staining his teeth. The virus lent Q enough power to literally tear Bond’s arms off, if given the chance.

Bond sprayed the antidote directly into his lover’s face. “Done,” he rasped into his intercom, stumbling back; until the antidote had worked, Q was still a carrier, could infect Bond if not kill him.

The air split apart as Q screamed.

\---

Q slid his eyes open.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” he whispered, the next instant.

Nearly three weeks, and he had never slept. He had never chosen to open his own eyes. Certainly, he had never heard his voice, nothing more than throttled moans that were not him.

A rustling next to him, and Q flinched on instinct. “Q, it’s me,” a familiar voice told him calmly. “You’re safe, Q. We found an antidote.”

Q couldn’t breathe. He twisted his body to one side – almost _sobbing_ with gratitude that he actually could – to see James Bond. His James. Waiting by his bedside looking incredibly tired, but very much alive. “You’re here,” Q murmured.

“I promised,” Bond reminded him.

Memory reinstated with terrible clarity. Q lasted all of a second or two before violently, desperately throwing up – Bond whipped a bowl out of nowhere, placing it beneath Q’s mouth – trying to get everything out of his body, absolutely _everything_ , the taste of blood and flesh and life that _he_ had stripped from people. Men, women, children, anything in the way.

Q had watched himself tear bodies apart, rip into them with bare teeth. He couldn’t get the taste out.

It wouldn’t stop, _none of it_ would stop.

Bond rubbed soothing circles over his back as Q retched helplessly, abruptly sobbing. “Q, calm down,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Q’s head while his entire body trembled. “It’s okay, it’s over now.”

“I killed people,” Q tried to explained, pulling himself upright, eyes black with exhaustion. His body hurt, his _organs_ hurt, stringy acid and thin swirls of blood, trying to make himself forget.

Abruptly, Q started screaming.

Bond tried to hush him, tried to curve arms around his lover, comfort him. “Q. It was _not_ you. The virus took over, you _know_ that.”

“I can’t stop seeing it,” Q hiccupped, toppling against Bond’s body, recoiling a half-second later with whiplash speed. “Shit, _shit_ , James, I can’t. I could still be a carrier.”

Bond tried to reach for his lover, Q all but whimpering as he pushed himself into the farthest corner of the bed. “You’re not,” Bond said, tone as placatory as he could manage. “I promise, Q. They’re monitoring you hourly to make sure, but there’s no signs of virus. You’re _safe_. It nearly killed you…”

Q flinched; he still retained half-memories of it, of pain so acute it felt like his body was wrenching apart.

He saw Bond, for the shortest of seconds, before the pain. If it hadn’t been for that, Q would have let himself die. He knew that. Without _some part_ of him believing Bond was there, death would have been impossibly welcome.

Q’s expression contracted in a short, strangled sob. “I won’t hurt you?” he asked again, while Bond watched him. He didn’t try to invade, left Q his space, shook his head slowly in a distinct confirmation.

Bond’s warmth seeped into Q’s body, the iciness of his dead muscles, the terrifying cold that hadn’t left him alone for three weeks. Bond was real, immediate.

He sheltered Q’s body with his own, and let his lover cry.


	62. The Jess Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> q has a little sister (as in primary school sister) and he and bond go on a date when no one’s there to pick her up from school so he is forced to take her to their date. – anon

“You’re _kidding_ me,” Q said angrily. “Mummy, this is… I’m _out_. I have a… _yes_ , it’s still called a _date_ … well what did you _think_ it would be called?! Yes, it’s a man… no, we’ll talk about that later. Jess is… dancing. Of course. And daddy is…? Well. _Fine_ , fine, mummy, I’ll pick her up. What time are you home? Okay. Fine. _Yes_ , I’ll feed her. Yes… love you too. Enjoy.”

Q hung up, taking a deep, steady breath. Bond raised an eyebrow. “We need to pick up my baby sister,” he said calmly. “And apparently, we’re taking her out to dinner, because I was _really_ looking forward to curry.”

“How old is she?” Bond asked nervously. Q just winced.

“Ten.”

Bond went white.

-

“Are you and Q going out?” the child asked, stabbing at a prawn dopiaza with surprising fervour. Bond was particularly impressed by her dismembering a king prawn without any problems, placing the head to one side – not to mention the fact that she seemed perfectly fine with calling her brother an initial.

Q sighed. “Yes, Jess. James is my boyfriend.”

“Knew you were gay,” she muttered, dipping naan in the sauce. Bond very narrowly restrained a snort of laughter. “Are you happy?”

Children. Especially ones like Jess, with a little too much intelligence, and not quite enough tact – she just didn’t see the problem with asking directly. Bond watched Q, as interested as Jess concerning Q’s reply.

Q looked at Bond, his expression curiously soft. “Yes,” he murmured. “I am.”

Bond smirked. He cast a brief glance at Jess, who was outright grinning at the pair of them. “Me too.”

“Good,” she said happily; Q ruffled her hair fondly, making her squeal slightly, trying to bat her brother away. “ _Stop it!”_ she cried, ducking away with a ferocious stare. “Or I’ll steal your chicken.”

Q, looking affronted, moved his plate well out of her reach and grinned. “Try if you dare,” he mocked.

“Are you in the government too?” Jess asked, grabbed for her diet coke.

Bond looked at Q, who nodded; he could tell her the usual cover, without too many problems. “Yes. I’m not in Q’s department – I do a lot of travelling,” he said, ambiguous enough, or so he thought.

“So what do you actually _do_?” Jess asked; she had Q’s eyes, and the ability to make Bond feel he was being x-rayed with a single glance.

Bond’s lip twitched. “I keep people safe,” he said simply. “I go where I need to, travel all round the world. I’ve been everywhere, to look after you.”

“Me?” Jess asked, voice awed.

Bond nodded. “I make sure you, your mummy and daddy, Q,” he continued, glancing briefly at Q who watched, enraptured. “safe. Your brother and I try to save the world, when we can.”

Jess’s eyes were saucer-wide, glancing between Q and Bond. “Wow,” she said softly.

“Now, if you tell anybody about it, you could get both of us hurt,” Bond said warningly; Jess looked to Q, who nodded, still completely entranced by Bond’s take on MI6. “You need to stay very quiet, hmm?”

Jess nodded, expression bright. “Yes,” she grinned. “I won’t tell anyone. Can I tell mummy and daddy that you have an official boyfriend now? She knows you like boys. I think she’ll like James,” she asked, glancing at Q, apparently already moving on from the previous subject.

“… not quite yet,” Q managed, and served himself more daal.

\---

 

Q straightened his sleeves neurotically, hovering on the doorstep. “This is right up there with Uganda in ‘the most frightening moments of my life’ category,” he mumbled to Bond, as the door opened on Q’s baby sister.

Jess was a charming ten year old, with precocious intelligence, and an absolute adoration of James. The latter point was very useful, in convincing Q’s relatively conservative parents that Bond was, in fact, a good idea in Q’s life.

“ _James_ ,” she said delightedly, letting Bond scoop her up into his arms; they had spent a good while together, Q letting his sister bond with his boyfriend, re-establishing better contact with his family in general. “How’re you?” she asked excitedly, as Bond stepped through the door after Q, ducking to let Jess’s head get under the threshold.

“I’m fine Jess, ta for asking,” Q noted with a touch of irony, smirking as Jess ran her hand along the ceiling wondrously, Bond watching Q with a smile that spoke of absolute calm. It would be fine. It would all be fine.

Q poked his head around the living room door, as Jess giggled; Bond slid her to the floor, telling her he’d be with her in a moment. “Yes, mummy and daddy need to meet you,” she said seriously, darting into the living room at the same time as Q.

Q’s parents were both very young in motion for their age, agile in a way Bond respected. Q’s mother had dyed black hair that fell to her shoulders in curls like Q’s, his father holding the precise shade of green in Q’s eyes. “Mummy, daddy, this is James,” Q said, a little formally, eyes widened faintly with nervousness. “He works in MI6 with me.”

Bond winked at Jess, who giggled, watching the exchange curiously. “He’s really nice, promise,” she piped up, making Q cringe slightly, and Bond struggle to suppress laughter.

“Thank you, Jess,” Q’s mother said firmly; she turned to Bond, her smile very genuine. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, James. Jess is highly enamoured of you.”

Jess nodded sagely, making Q shoot her a look of pure poison; she smirked, glancing to her father who was very, very still.

Q’s expression froze.

“Daddy, be nice,” Jess murmured from her chair.

Q’s father turned on her with a vicious expression. “I didn’t ask your opinion. Your room, Jess, right now,” he ordered; Jess nodded, shrugging slightly at James and Q before vanishing. The man turned on Bond and Q, Bond’s gravity leaning towards Q, protective despite himself. “You may have my daughter rapt, but I will not be so easily swayed, do you understand me?”

“Perfectly,” Bond replied simply, without blinking. He had met far more frightening people than this man. “I care a great deal about Q, and consequently, your family. Jess is a lovely girl.”

Q’s father nodded curtly, still glancing Bond up and down. His mother stood a little back, eyes also on Bond, both of them obviously trying to assess him and finding nothing. Bond was unreadable, he made a living of it.

“Can I come back yet?” Jess yelled from the top of the stairs, and Bond grinned despite himself. That child was a _nightmare_ , but would – undoubtedly – be one hell of a personality when she grew up.


	63. The Anorexia Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re an amazing writer! Can you do a prompt where Q is really stressed and becomes anorexic to deal with it? And maybe some 00q, too :) – anon

“Bond. _Piss off_ , before I have security ban you from the goddamn branch,” Q snapped at him, moving between desks with breathtaking speed, a study in motion as various things flashed and whirred, Q clearly more tapped into his earpiece than anything else around.

It just so happened that Bond was getting distinctly in his way. There was too much happening, too much to be getting on with; Q had slept only minimal amounts for the past few days, the workload becoming ridiculous.

He was also, quite intentionally, not eating. Not his most logical move perhaps, but he had long since stopped caring much for logic. He had slid into anorexia as a teenager, and really, he had been expecting a relapse for a while given the stress of his job. When everything stopped, as was inevitable, he would be able to deal with the eating again, go through the recovery and refeeding and all of that bullshit, return to the suspension of ‘recovery’.

The immortal, impossible truism of eating disorders; it never stops. Years after his ‘recovery’, and he still blanched at some meals, found himself with a constant counter of calories, checking himself too-carefully, wincing slightly when he noticed the triggering shadows of collarbones, the suggestion of a ribcage, the sharp point of an elbow.

So now, yes. He was starving himself because he didn’t have the strength to fight when _everything else_ was turning to hell. He would regret it, certainly, but there came a point of ‘too much’. He would not be in serious medical jeopardy for a little while yet.

Bond seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with his eating habits, for some sadistic reason. Q had yet to work out why. “Q, you will fall down dead if you keep avoiding food.”

“I cannot express how little I care,” Q snapped, typing long strings of code into his computer, snapping at his various colleagues as blown-up CCTV images blossomed on monitors, tracking beeping, keeping time.

Bond caught him by the wrist, dragging him in, stalling him. “Q,” he said sharply. “You look like hell, and you’re going to burn out.”

Q stared at him for a long moment, and hated the part of him that _loathed_ Bond for noticing. This would be so much _harder_ if Bond noticed.

He shook Bond off, returned to his work, had Bond banned from Q-branch for the foreseeable future.

-

Two weeks later, and Q was forced to concede that this was – in no sense – a temporary slip of judgement. He was losing weight on an already slim frame at a worrying rate, to the extent that Bond was – quite noticeably – worried.

He’d had no anger. Mostly, there was a pervasive sense of weariness; he had hoped to not go through this again, and now he was here, remembering old thoughts and lies about why he wanted this, why it was necessary.

Q knew he had to fix it, and he would. He would.

Just not quite yet.

\---

 

Q knew full damn well that he had only a handful of days before he was ensconced in Medical. The familiar fault lines had started to show; he was having to move slower, abrupt movements sending waves of dizziness through his body. The cold ate away from somewhere inside him, regardless of layers or heaters. Bond was a skipped meal away from having him sectioned.

It was very tiring. Q was used to the tiredness that came with his disorder. Physical exhaustion is a given; the body trickles to an inevitable stop, slows until there is nothing left but a pervasive weariness that atrophies the muscles.

More damaging is the psychological tiredness. The feeling, moment after moment, that fighting has grown impossible. The exhaustion seeps through any and all cracks. It sits there, a constant weight. It isn’t kind enough to cause paralysis, just lingers, pulling everything down.

Bond placed food in front of him, and Q tried, he honestly did. Stared at sandwiches and felt the counter in his head tick up and up and up, and fingers played over the rise and fall of thighs and stomach and arms, unnoticeably, and negotiated in quiet terms with himself and lost.

The sandwich tumbled into the bin, covered deftly by papers, and nobody could see. Bond was placated for another minute, another hour, another day, maybe. Maybe another day. And a touch more weight would fall from his body and that was okay.

Q was intelligent enough to know he was underweight, now. He knew he was beginning to look unwell. His libido had ground to an abrupt halt, and he wore layers upon layers in bed, pressed to Bond’s side, because the cold became so much that he could feel himself half-shaking, and Bond held onto him for dear life because of course, he didn’t understand. Q himself didn’t understand, Bond didn’t stand a chance.

It was purely humiliating, and yet. And _yet_.

Bond placed tea in front of him, laced with milk, with sugar. Q shut his eyes slightly, and cursed himself with everything he had, because this was not fair. Not on him, not on the one person he wanted to look after, to love.

“Please,” Bond asked, and Q’s heart broke a fraction. He would give Bond everything he asked, he honestly would, if only he bloody well _could_. His mind fought back, threw up barriers in every direction, and Q hid behind them and cried because he had tried to make this stop when he was sixteen and really, so many years had passed, and he didn’t want to do this again.

Q would have sacrificed near enough anything, to make it stop. Pull the thoughts away from him and make it so they could _never_ come back.

His fingers felt a little unresponsive as he tried to type, his eyes struggling to focus, and Q locked his office door and cried at his desk in the silence of his office, trying to make thoughts cohere, too far down the rabbit hole to make it worthwhile screaming for help. This was his little circle of hell, and he would need to fight out of it again, somehow.

It worked once before, after all.

So Q stared at a cup of tea, and a plate of digestives. Stared until the tea had long since gone cold.

Closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, refusing to let the tears sting.

Threw the digestives in the bin, wrapped nonchalantly in tissues so nobody would ever know.

\---

Q opened his eyes, feeling like somebody was repeatedly kicking his skull from the inside. It took a terribly long time to muster the energy – and coordination – to reach for his glasses, which didn’t enormously help the dizziness to start off with.

Medical. Oh, _bollocks_.

“You passed out,” a voice noted from next to him; Q twisted over slightly, blinking as he focused on Bond. “Quote, ‘dangerously malnourished’. Nobody’s quite certain how you’re still standing and working, but I guess…”

Q groaned loudly, cutting over Bond’s speech. “I’m fine. It’s been a stressful few weeks,” he managed. “Just… this is all a storm in a bloody teacup. I mean, _Medical_?”

Bond’s expression was neutral, in the way it always became when he knew he was getting emotional and utterly refused to let so much as a fraction of it show. “I understand, now,” he said quietly. “All of it, it makes sense. They have records, you know…”

“I was a lot younger, then,” Q said defensively, making his way to sitting up properly, the world tilting sideways to such an extent he had to shut his eyes a moment. Medical was unbelievably cold; his fingers felt frozen in place, his breath had to be clouding, surely.

His heart gave a handful of crazed thumps at his attempts to move, and Q exhaled slowly, hating the tone of Bond’s voice. “Q. If you keep going the way you are, you’ll be dead soon,” Bond told him, a statement of pure fact.

“They’re being overdramatic…”

“No, they are not,” Bond interjected, tone a little sharper. Q watched him for a moment, expression twisting slightly as Bond almost imperceptibly crumpled. “You know I’ve seen too many people I care about die,” he murmured, a sentence that caused confusion for an odd moment.

Q blinked. “I know, James,” he replied, as gently as he could manage. “I’ll be okay, I promise…”

“You can’t promise that,” Bond interrupted, voice sounding horribly tense. “I’m sorry, Q. You won’t admit there’s a problem…”

“There’s _not…_ ”

“I can’t help you,” Bond informed him. “I’ve tried, I really have, but I can’t get through to you, nothing is – and I can’t watch you die. You can’t ask me to watch you die.”

Q felt breathless for the oddest of moments, trying to make his mind work a fraction faster. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly, scanning over Bond’s face, the blue of his eyes dark with tiredness, with hurt.

“I’m moving out,” Bond murmured, as gently as he could. “Q, I’m sorry. Maybe this will get through to you, because _nothing else_ is.”

Sharp breaths, vision beginning to tunnel. “I can fix this, I have before,” Q said rapidly, heart beginning to pound in his temples, hurt spanning his too-fragile body, making his head throb “Please. James, you can’t go.”

Bond leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Q’s forehead. He looked more hurt than Q had ever seen from him, a fact that was near enough breathtaking. “Get help,” he pleaded, the first time Q had heard him beg for anything. He looked terribly hurt, almost _fragile_. “I love you.”

“ _James_.”

Q’s entire being shattered, as Bond walked away.

\---

Q crossed his legs, and engaged in an all-out staring match with a bowl of pasta, absolutely fucking _determined_ that it would work, for James, for himself, that he could stop _thinking_ so much and just eat the damn stuff.

An hour later: the pasta had congealed, and Q was curled up on the sofa crying to him, wishing there was somebody there to listen, to realise that he was trying, he really was, but he couldn’t force the motion to start, body contracting in an unvoiced scream of utter _rage_ at himself, at his head, at pasta.

-

Asking for help was conceding defeat, thus Q refused to do. Q-branch was rife with concerned parties, all bleating help from various corners, and Q would have merrily murdered the lot of them because he was _fine_. This was in control. For god’s _sake_ , he was a grown man, with a high-powered job, and would _not_ be knocked back by a teenager’s illness.

Only, his eyes weren’t focusing properly any more, and typing at speed was getting very difficult.

Q missed Bond with every fraction of himself he had left. Lucid moments, and he came _so close_ , inches from stumbling into Medical and conceding that yes, _fine_ , this had ceased to be manageable any more. He knew that. He knew he was falling, fast, but also had to put up with the excruciating duality of needing help, and not being able to ask.

When the decision was taken out of his hands, Q was angrier than he had been in his life – he raged, screamed, entirely prepared to take down anybody and anything to avoid the involuntary admission to an MI6 ward, where they would allow him no work and no distractions and no _anything_.

The anger calmed down, and Q cried like he was breaking apart, terrified of losing everything, dimly aware that he already had, and more relieved that he knew he could feel at the fact that things now stood a chance of improving.

Bond appeared on the day of Q’s admission. He settled himself down in the seat next to his bed, eyes dark, smile almost genuine. “I didn’t think you’d come,” Q said quietly, chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with the arrhythmic skip of his heartbeat these days.

Q watched, wishing Bond would speak, knowing he would not. There was nothing to say. Q’s medical state was concerning, at best, and he was still tenaciously treatment-resistant. Bond came, and sat, and watched, because at least while Q was under surveillance, he was not killing himself by proxy.

Weight crept on, of course, and Q pretended he didn’t mind. He stopped his hands shaking when they told him to eat, and forced an intellectual dispassion that allowed him to get through these stages. Medical would release him, once he was no longer medically compromised, and then he just had to negotiate with Psych teams.

It was manageable. It was all manageable. Q kept everything balanced for another second, another minute, because he had work to do and a life to lead.

He defiantly ate, drank, and sobbed hysterically on his own as his body remoulded again by increments, and Q realised he didn’t _want_ to recover. He didn’t deserve Bond anyway, so why in the hell bother, why battle the demons when there is nothing to be won.

“I miss you,” he told Bond frankly at one stage, when he was installed back in Q-branch, drinking copious amounts of tea to quell the ache, to allow him to pretend for another hour, another day.

Bond almost managed a smile. “You’re not fooling me,” he said calmly, because he always was calm. He could see straight through the latticework of lies and semi-truths Q was throwing up, walls with cracks only Bond ever _could_ see through. “Stop lying, Q. It’s not worth all this, nothing is.”

With that, Bond walked out of Q’s office.

Q stood, rolling his eyes at the inevitable grey-out that happened whenever he tried to stand these days. He went, made himself a tea, milk and sugar. He had always hated drinking tea black, anyway, but it became something of a habit. The first thing to go when he was struggling, usually.

Curled up in his office, Q took a breath, and for at least _this moment_ , defied everything.

He could almost see Bond’s smirk, and laughed quietly to himself as he drank his tea, wishing it could be just a little bit easier.

\---

Bond strode into Q’s office, and stopped dead. Q’s eyes widened a little; he curled up into himself a little, tugging his shirt over his hands, his wrists, tightening himself until he could near-enough vanish.

“You look good,” Bond said simply, with a type of almost-wondering honesty.

Q couldn’t quite bring himself to smile, but he tried anyway; he knew Bond would notice. He always did. When everything had first started, Bond had been the first to see through the gaps, to notice the slightly deeper indent of a rib, the coldness of his fingers, the way his smile stopped touching his eyes.

It was enough, for a moment, that Q tried. His unhappiness was obvious and immediate, but that would get better, get easier. It had before, it would again.

Bond walked around the side of the desk, trying to look closer, forehead knotted as he glanced over Q’s slim body. Slim, but not emaciated, not any more. Q remained very still as Bond knelt in front of him, hands reaching out, gently checking Q’s simple _there_ -ness, establishing that he was more whole than Bond had seen him in for a long while.

A touch, and Q could have cried. Bond was so _warm_. Even now – even at a climbing weight, even with eating almost-well, the cold refused to go. It was always the last to go. It was only when Q could honestly say he felt warm, when his fingers regained dexterity, when he stopped _needing_ tea to quell the cold and started _wanting_ tea because he liked the stuff, that he would tentatively apply the label of ‘recovered’ – for however a brief a time – and life would just about continue, in whatever wonky way it could.

Bond extended his arms, and Q toppled into him, onto him, already crying. Bond didn’t try to speak, didn’t ask why Q’s body was all but arching in sobs, why his mouth opened in a muted scream that never managed to form. He hushed Q gently, closed his arm _warm, so warm_ around Q’s body, and just held on.

“What can I do?” Bond asked, his voice very soft, very grounding.

Q breathed as best he could, calming by fractions, _terrified_ that Bond would leave again. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, so quietly, as though Bond would hear his words and pull away. “I’m trying, I promise, just _please_ don’t leave.” _Again_ , remained unsaid, heavy between them regardless.

Bond shifted where they had landed, tugging Q over so Bond could lean against the desk, cradling almost all of Q’s body in his lap. He was so, heartbreakingly fragile. Not in a beautiful, delicate way, but in the way of somebody who could literally shatter at the slightest touch, fall to pieces that nobody could put back together.

“I won’t,” Bond murmured; he had left to maybe, _please_ , make Q realise that something had to change.

It had taken a while, and Q was a long way from healthy just yet. But he was finally fighting back; less pale, less visibly exhausted, the tremor fading out.

From here, Bond could help. He _would_ help.

Q hiccupped against him, so lost, transparently scared. “I’ve got you,” Bond told him, and let Q cry himself out, breathing kisses into his hair.


	64. The Bondlock Fills

“Bond? James Bond?”

Bond spun on his heel, facing the civilian opposite, sandy-blonde hair and familiar smile. “Watson. Jesus, it’s been years,” he said, dragging the other man into a quick embrace, looking him up and down. “Aren’t you a sight! Last I heard, you were drafted to Afghanistan?”

“I went, I saw, I came back,” John returned, grinning. “Gunshot to the shoulder, invalided out. What about you, you still in the secret service?”

Bond tilted his head to one side, shrugging. “Wouldn’t be able to say now, would I? I have the gunshot wound to match, though,” he smirked, waving at his left shoulder; John nodded sympathetically, his own practically healed these days. “What about you?”

“I work as an assistant to a consulting detective,” John explained succinctly; it was really the only way to describe what he ‘did’ these days. “I moonlight as a GP from time to time, just locum work, damn boring.”

“Anyone on the horizon?” Bond smirked; Watson had been quite the womaniser, back when Bond had known him. “Unless you’ve made your way through all of London…” John flushed slightly, making Bond’s eyebrows raise practically into his hairline. “Who…?”

John sighed, rolling his eyes at himself. “The consulting detective I mentioned?” he began; Bond laughed, nodding. “Also…” John hesitated, brow creasing faintly. “He’s a ‘he’.”

Bond blinked; he honestly hadn’t expected it of John, not given his history. But then: “Same here, weirdly enough,” he said lightly. “Not sure how in the hell that happened, but…”

“Seriously?” John interrupted, looking him up and down. “I never would have thought… what’s he like?”

“Ridiculously intelligent, skinny, dark-haired…” Bond explained, as John looked faintly nauseated. “What?”

John just blinked, inches from backing away slowly. “Sherlock’s exactly the same,” he said, looking a little spooked. “Tall, dark-haired, unbelievably acerbic…”

“… self-assured, crosses into arrogant…”

“… _no_ sense of human or social boundaries…”

“… actually no, Q’s quite good with other people,” Bond said fairly; like John, the similarities between their partners was unnerving him a good deal. “Jesus, Watson. Who would have thought?”

Honestly, it was a little bit creepy. Their lives seemed to be running in a terrifying parallel to one another, with similarities that were distinctly unnerving. “Yeah,” John managed, noncommittally. “Look, d’you want to grab a drink later? There’s a pub round the corner…”

“Sounds ideal,” Bond nodded, before John could even finish the sentence. “Eight? I’ll introduce you to Q, if he’s around.”

“If I can get Sherlock out the house, you too,” John parried, the pair embracing again for a moment. “See you then.”

\---

 

John and Bond arrived in absolute tandem. Army scheduling; they were only ever late by design, usually. John knew the place better, found a relatively secluded table and gestured towards it. “I wouldn’t trust this place for a martini,” John smirked, making Bond grimace a little.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said, grinning at John as he went up to bar, Bond himself relaxing a little. He hated paperwork days, they were always far worse than active missions.

He managed about four seconds of peace before a man slid into the booth opposite him, blue-green eyes terrifyingly intent, scanning every inch of him. He didn’t say a word. “Can I help?” Bond asked drily.

A thin, disingenuous smile. “I’m not certain yet,” the man replied in a rolling baritone, a smoothness to his tone that had the potential to be cloying. “You were speaking to John Watson, correct?”

Bond glanced the man over again, eyes narrowing. Tall, dark-haired. There was a decent probability. “You’re his partner,” Bond realised aloud.

The man gave a faint snarl, lip curling. “I despise that term,” he noted, propping his elbows on the table, fingers playing under his chin, brushing absentmindedly under his lips. “But in simple terms, yes. John Watson and I are _involved_ , in that hideously gossip-worthy sense that so many subscribe to.”

To his credit, Bond didn’t flinch in the slightest. “I…”

“Sherlock. Of bloody course.”

The man glanced up at the sound of his name. Upon seeing Q, a lazy, arrogant smile filtered across his expression. “Well now. It has been a while, has it not?”

“You utter bastard,” Q snapped. “Do you have any idea what you fucking did? I nearly ended up in _prison_.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Bond surreptitiously rolled his eyes. “And you two know each other from…?” he asked wearily, amused at the litany of swear words pouring from his lover’s lips. He reached out to Q, pulling him in towards the booth, the younger man calming slightly under Bond’s hands.

Q shot Bond an aggrieved look, gesturing towards Sherlock. “We were in university together,” he explained. “That _bastard_ decided to make it common knowledge that I was working as a freelance hacker in my spare time.”

“You were in over your head,” Sherlock drawled; John returned, shooting Bond an apologetic glance as he handed over a pint of beer, hopefully a palatable type. “Honestly, Be…”

“Q,” Q interrupted, faster than Bond had ever seen him interrupt, swallowing what could only have been his name. “It’s _Q_ , now.”

Sherlock glanced, let out a peal of laughter; John whacked him, Sherlock shooting him a contemptuous, petulant glance before falling silent. “Bond, I see you’ve met Sherlock,” John sighed.

“In a manner of speaking,” Bond replied warily, as the angular man continued to stare with unguarded amusement at he and Q. “And this is Q.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Q?”

“Just Q,” Q said irritably. “I’m getting a bloody drink.”

Sherlock grinned. “You know what I like,” he purred, in a way that made every possessive muscle in Bond and John’s body simultaneously tense. Q just raised an eyebrow, shaking his head as he made his way to the bar.

John’s body retained the tension, grip a little harder on Sherlock’s arm than before. Bond just remained entirely still, and waited for Q to come back.


	65. The Fever Dreams fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Established 00Q prompt: Bond will occasionally get fever dreams where he’s convinced he’s still on a mission. Q’s luckily never been an enemy but someone Bond’s been assigned to protect and has been pushed into closets, under the bed, etc., for safe keeping. James can’t be reasoned with under these circumstances and it’s best just to go along with it. I don’t want this to be humorous but just something Q deals with as part of living with 007. – anon

Two in the morning, and Q found himself lifted by the scruff of the neck, and bowled over the edge of the bed.

Blinking, Q knew there was no point reaching for his glasses; Bond would hold him down, keep him curled into a tight knot behind the bed until the perceived threat had gone.

Sometimes, Q imagined he could hear the gunshots, whatever sounds James heard that led him to these moments. It was odd, like trying to intrude on a memory, his mind supplying images that were doubtless nothing like Bond’s.

He had grown used to it. Initially, it was frightening; woken in the night by a heavily muscled, very highly-trained MI6 operative was never likely to be pleasant. Bond either didn’t hear, or didn’t listen.

It took Q a surprisingly long time to realise that Bond was completely asleep. Nightmares took on a tangible edge, and his protective instincts became so heightened that Q was a mark. One of the earlier incidents had wound up with Q slammed into the corner of the room, Bond’s body blocking him from people that only lived in Bond’s memory.

As he grew used to it, Q’s body learned to handle the stress. The rush of adrenaline was always immense, but faded back quickly once he recognised that Bond was unconscious. He started to fall back asleep. Bond would thrum with tension above him, guarding him, eventually either waking or fading back to sleep.

Bond knew he had dreams, vivid ones. He only discovered how heavily Q was involved when he woke up one morning to find himself leant against the side of the bed. More worrying was Q, who was slumped in the corner, sleeping with his head on his shoulder, tucked in a tight ball.

“Q?” Bond asked gently, reaching out to his lover; Q shivered slightly, blinked awake.

“Morning,” he mumbled, the bags around his eyes surprisingly pronounced, focusing carefully on Bond. He hadn’t slept; Bond had been tense for too long, moving Q around the room abruptly, finally settling the younger man in the corner, crowding him until Q was foetal and slightly cramped. “Are you alright?”

Bond just raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing over here?” he asked curiously; Q sat up slightly, looking faintly surprised.

“Don’t worry,” Q mumbled, stretching out, his smile gentle and forgiving. “It was just a dream. You wanted to keep me safe, so you got me out of the way. Really, I’m flattered.”

“Q…”

“Please James, don’t worry about it,” Q placated, reaching forward to curl, cat-like, in Bond’s arms. “I’m fine, and you’re dealing with your dreams, no negative effects. It’s okay.”

Bond tightened his arms around the younger man on instinct, holding Q in place, pretending not to notice the thin, blossoming bruises of a too-tight grip, of where Q had bounced off the wall.

\---

 

Q’s eyes flew open, adrenaline spiking, breathtakingly conscious as he was lifted out of bed, pinned against the wall above the bed by the throat, the headboard cutting into his lower spine.

His head lolled slightly. Another dream. Bond just kept on having the dreams; worst just after dangerous missions, almost nonexistent when he was calm. Q had never been seriously hurt, and really, had learned to deal with them quite well. Bond would calm down, head back to bed, and Q would crawl back in after him and pretend nothing had ever happened.

This looked to be different. Q couldn’t see Bond’s face, myopia and sleep skewing his vision, but could hear the deepness of his breath, could feel the tension thrumming in his body and the tightness of his fingers around Q’s throat.

Q hit the wall far harder than he ever had before, crumpling down as pain shot up the right side of his body. He didn’t know what to do; he didn’t want to wake Bond now, and risk conflating dream and reality. He also had not a hope in hell in fighting Bond off.

The only possible solution was to run for it, and if that didn’t work, risk trying to wake him up.

Diving for the door had the immediate knock-on effect of inspiring Bond to motion; Q was stalled before he’d managed to get hold of the handle, arm wrenched behind his back.

Bond was trained to incapacitate, and show no mercy to, targets. Q was simply grateful Bond hadn’t somehow decided he was a target for elimination; if he had been, he would already be dead. As it was, this was standard behaviour for a target awaiting an MI6 pickup, for later interrogation.

All thoughts of a logical variety went out the window when Bond continued pulling on his captive arm, popping it out of the socket with a distinct, almost cracking noise.

Q collapsed, Bond letting him fall. The pain radiated down his now useless right arm – his dominant arm – fingers hanging lifeless as Q tried to move them, paralysed with shock, pain, genuine terror.

“James,” he managed, when he got his breath back; he tried to touch the agent with his good arm, was hit so hard round the head his vision spun, Bond depositing him in the corner with a contemptuous expression that Q could only half see. “James, _please_.”

Bond ignored him, the tension in his body incrementally worse when Q tried to speak; as Q tried repeating his name, he twisted back with an abrupt snarl that made Q violently flinch, recoiling back to his corner.

The sounds in the room faded to Q’s hitching breath, and Bond’s deep, steady exhales.

Dizzy, exhausted, in a lot of pain and a fair amount of shock, Q rested his head in the corner, crying slightly to himself as he surreptitiously examined his limp arm, fingers trailing over the swelling joint, keening very softly in pain as he touched it. Bond sat on the edge of the bed, watching but not watching, Q desperately praying for the dream to finally recede.

It did. Bond slumped backwards, pulling the duvet over himself, slipping into genuine sleep, outside the realms of his fevered imagination.

Q gave himself a moment to indulge in sheer disbelief, as his partner merrily started snoring.

“James,” he repeated, wiping away tears, wincing as he touched his apparently tender jaw. “James, for fuck’s _sake_ , wake up. _Wake up_ ,” he yelled, the last word breaking slightly.

Bond stirred, sitting up quickly; he had always been quick to wake. “Q?” he asked in confusion, glancing around the room, finding his lover in the corner of the room; he flicked the light on, finally seeing the redness of where a fist had impacted, the tightness of Q’s posture betraying a fair degree of pain.

 _Fuck_.

\---

 

Bond was out of bed in a heartbeat, ducking to Q’s side; he looked very tremulous, arm held at an odd angle. “You broke my arm,” Q mumbled, breathing with erratic violence.

“Dislocated,” Bond disagreed quietly, in a terrifyingly level voice. “Sit forward for me.”

Q did as he was told, biting back small noises as his arm jolted, outright whimpering when Bond gently manoeuvred it around, painfully gentle. “Breathe steadily for me,” Bond murmured, rotating the arm in soft movements. “This will hurt, but I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

Bond’s jaw tightened at the strange, strangled giggle Q let out at Bond’s words. He nodded anyway, squeezing his eyes shut, a short, high-pitched gasp tumbling from his lips as the shoulder clicked back into place. “Pain meds,” Q pleaded, still very still.

“Stay here,” Bond told him, pressing a dry kiss onto his forehead, trying to keep himself from shaking.

Q waited until Bond had left to let out a slightly frantic sob. Fuck, it hurt it really hurt, and he was now very much awake with work in a few hours and his boyfriend looking like he was about to snap with tension.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, as Bond handed him some of his heavier-duty painkillers, the opiate-based ones Medical gave particularly difficult agents. He knocked them back, slumping against the wall against his good shoulder.

Bond slid his arms under Q’s body, lifting him easily, cradling his lover against his chest before installing him back on the bed. He backed off again rapidly afterwards, misconstruing Q’s plaintive sound; Q reached out his good arm to Bond, trying to pull him back. “I know you didn’t mean to,” he said quietly, hissing at the coldness of ice against his jaw, over his shoulder, Bond helping him from as far a physical distance as he could manage. “James…”

“This will not go away merely because you want it to,” Bond said quietly. “I hurt you. You know full damn well I could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t,” Q pointed out, shifting awkwardly, suppressing the slight wince at movement. “I’m okay. I’m going to strongly suggest sleep therapy…”

“You think?!” Bond snapped back, before reigning himself back in. “I’m going to sleep on the sofa for a while.”

Q let out another plaintive, annoyed sound. “You were _asleep_. Get some drugs in you, sleep through the night… this hasn’t happened before, we have no reason to believe it would happen again…”

“And if it _does_?” Bond asked belligerently, before shaking his head. “No, Q. Not until I know I won’t hurt you again. You’ll have limited function in that arm for a while as it is, and I… I could kill you. If it had been another situation, you would have been dead faster before you could voice an objection.”

“James…”

 

Bond tugged out of Q’s grip, leaving his Quartermaster behind, curled in the sheets as the medication made his vision blurry, made it easy to fall into a ball on his good side and sleep, tears staining the sheets as he wished for Bond’s warmth.

\---

After the arm incident, Bond was very, very weird to be around for a while afterwards. Q became accustomed to his almost pathological inability to sleep, doze, or in any way lose control of his faculties while around Q.

When it started to shift into their sex life – Bond treating Q like glass, gentle in a way that bordered on patronising – Q decided it was  _quite_  enough of that.

Unethical be damned; Q wanted to have a  _proper_  relationship with Bond. He had only ever fucked up once, and while Q was getting used to regular sleeping patterns for the first time in months, he missed having Bond there. It was rather impersonal, having somebody fuck him then promptly vanish.

Q drugged him.

Bond woke up, Q twined around his body like an overenthusiastic serpent, contentedly nuzzled into his chest. “Q?” Bond asked, with a voice like all of hell at once. “Q, what the  _hell_?”

Q let out a small, inelegant snort, and woke up. “Missed this,” he sighed happily, and essentially dozed off again.

“ _Q_.”

“What?”

Bond lifted him carefully, cupping Q’s face in his hands so the younger man had to look at him. “How did we end up sleeping together?”

Q yawned elaborately, looking like a slightly disgruntled cat as he tried to nestle back into Bond’s front. “You asked me to dinner and I kissed you and things escalated,” he mumbled sleepily, hands pawing slightly at Bond’s front. “Shh, sleeping now. You’re comfy.”

Bond rolled his eyes, shaking Q slightly. “No. Not now. I’m not supposed to be here.”

To Bond’s unending confusion, and mild annoyance, Q made a plaintive noise like a dying cat. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, green eyes wide and guileless, unusually innocent. “It’s okay. I’m fine. You’re fine. No harm done. You’ve been better anyway since therapy started, s’okay, and I’m not going so  _there_.”

He was simply too bloody endearing to say no to.

Bond sighed, and let a contented Q nuzzle back against him.

_Ha_ , thought Q smugly, and smirked.


	66. The Wary!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00Q promt: Q is particularly wary of 00 agents, he knows that interacting with them is part of his job but he goes above and beyond to keep them at a distance. However, when 007 starts displaying interest beyond professional Q goes out of his way to avoid him. Bond finds out that when Q was a regular employee of Q-branch another 00, who’s now dead, sought out Q to crazy stalker proportions just because he thought Q was playing hard to get. – anon

It was extraordinary. Really, Bond just didn’t understand it.

He had been very careful, around the new Quartermaster. Bond distrusted most people on instinct; he handled his Quartermaster in the same way, taking time, letting Q prove his capabilities, their rapport becoming easier.

The closer Bond got to Q, the easier their conversation came, the less he could track down the bloody man. For somebody who _lived_ in HQ, he never seemed to be in his office. He never seemed to be anywhere, these days.

Bond even tried the CCTV at one stage; Q looped it, blanking his presence out despite Bond _knowing_ he was there.

Eventually, Q left a clue. Bond managed to corner him in the shooting range, curled up in the corner with a laptop, looking a little sad. “Q? What on earth are you doing down here?” Bond asked casually, eyes raking up and down Q’s thin frame.

“How did you know I was here?” Q asked suspiciously, his expression hostile.

Bond blinked. “Eve saw you coming down, she told me,” he shrugged, eyes narrowing. “You’re avoiding me. Why?”

Q’s posture became tense, almost defensive. “I wanted my own space,” he said, tucking his legs closer to himself; Bond watched as he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, tension written over him like he was readying to spring at a moment’s notice.

Bond fell back slightly. For whatever reason, he was making Q distressed. “Are you… Q, are you alright? You seem tense.”

“Why do you care where I am?”

Bond hesitated. Quite honestly, he’d just wanted to spend more time with the young Quartermaster; Q was beautiful, very intelligent. The kind of person Bond would adore to take out sometime, enjoy dinner with, fuck into the mattress. “I quite enjoy your company, and haven’t seen you in days,” Bond explained simply. “Is that a problem?”

Q calmed himself as Bond watched, visibly trying to cover over anxiety. “My apologies,” he said quietly.

“It’s always the double-ohs,” Bond said, thinking aloud. “You don’t mind the other agents so much. They all talk about how utterly charming you are, but with us…”

“Stop it,” Q said tensely, standing up slowly, back to the wall. “I’m fine. I don’t have some… _vendetta_ , against the double-oh agents, that’s…”

“Exactly what you have, actually,” Bond realised, with some confusion. “But _why_?”

Q clutched the laptop to his chest like a shield. “I’ve had some… problems, with agents in the past,” he said carefully. “While I was in Q-branch, just… long before becoming Q… the old 002, before he died. He was rather insistent that he wanted quite a lot more than ‘company’. He turned up everywhere, just, fucking _everywhere_. Never did anything, died long before he had the chance, but I can’t go through that again, just… fuck, I can’t.”

Bond felt a low, hot surge of anger coil in his stomach.

“Believe me, I didn’t come here having stalked you, nor out of any desire to do so,” Bond said flatly. “I like you, Q, I will freely admit to that. Yes, it did partially fuel my seeking you out. 002, however, was _stalking_ you by the sound of it. I would never, Q, know that if nothing else.”

Q looked Bond up and down, nodded. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Thank you for not trying to lie. I… I can work with that. If you keep trying to track me down I’ll probably shoot you, but I can probably keep myself in the office more.”

Bond stayed by the door, watching, trying to gauge how far he could push. “If I’m upsetting you, just tell me to piss off and I will,” he promised, his smile understated.

Q nodded, clearly reassessing, watching Bond like he’d never seen the man before. Bond nodded once, and vanished out the door, leaving Q alone.

\---

 

A handful of pertinent points didn’t really change, with the revelation that Q had an understandable and severe distrust of double-oh agents.

He still camped out in bizarre locations to avoid being tracked down, and didn’t like it when an agent came to see him more than once. He was hyper-vigilant of all double-oh movements, in or out the office, security around his house remained very high.

The latter points made Bond’s jaw clench, struck with a distinct desire to track down the now-deceased agent, resurrect him, just to kill him again, very slowly. He had been present in all aspects of Q’s life, never reported, blackmailed Q into allowing him further access.

Fortunately, nothing more severe had happened. The threat had lingered, though, leaving a paranoid and frightened Q trying to guard himself against the highest-trained and most competent agents in the country. After a break-in, Q’s flat became securitised to the extent that flies would be electrocuted on contact.

Bond gave him time, gave him space, and stayed well back from anything that could upset the man. He appeared in Q’s office with plenty of warning, occasionally rattling off a sarcastic text in advance that Q could deal with as he liked. Sometimes it was alright, sometimes it wasn’t.

“It has occurred to me that you’re stalking me too, only you’re more intelligent than 002 was,” Q pointed out at one stage, glancing at Bond over the top of a computer.

Bond blinked, raised an eyebrow. “Do you mind it?” he asked softly, Q’s eyes boring into him, no shadow of upset or annoyance or fear.

Q smiled faintly. “Not especially,” he admitted, allowing smug joy to flourish in Bond’s chest.

When Bond asked Q out on a date, Q hesitated, but accepted with a mocking smile. “You’re good,” he admitted to Bond, who gave a nod of agreement, and ambled out of Q’s office again.

Q showed a fair degree of reluctance in returning to Bond’s flat. Not because he didn’t want anything to happen – because quite frankly, he did – but because it was a level of intimacy that was honestly a little bit frightening. Q still harboured a small but persistent fear of being in confined spaces with double-oh agents.

It was a testimony to how much he liked Bond that he didn’t protest in the slightest.

Bond gave him space regardless, let him adjust, consoled himself with imagining the wide and varied ways in which he could have killed 002, if he had still been alive, and still invading Q’s life to this kind of extent.

“Thank you,” Q said, a long while later, when they were well and truly used to one another.

Bond just smirked, fingers tight around the key he had in his pocket, the one Q had given him earlier that day: the key to Q’s flat.


	67. The Imaginary Friend fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is a secret childhood friend Bond imagined from his orphanage days, and Bond hasn’t been able to let go of him since. Bond starts to question the viability, not to mention the sanity, of keeping Q when he meets Vesper. It’s a little bit about growing up, no matter the age, and what it means to fall in love. I will leave you the tough decision of how Bond would resolve this. Thank you!!! Your writing is amazing, per usual. – anon

“She’s your type,” Q pointed out, swinging legs back and forth from where he sat on the desk, forehead creased in the way Bond knew so well. “Intelligent, dark-haired, beautiful. I’m almost flattered.”

Bond laughed, glancing at his Q properly. It was curious; after years of aging in tandem with James, he had ground to a stop, now looking perpetually young. Bond supposed it said something about his psyche, but really, he didn’t want to explore that too closely.

He sighed slightly. “I’m too old to be listening to you,” he told Q firmly, almost crossly. Q was such an established part of his life that really, it was becoming difficult to question him; it was just _Q_.

Yet. Vesper Lynd. Ostensibly a perfect type of woman. With her, he forgot Q. He _could_ forget Q. He didn’t _need_ his friend there, the companion who could keep him sane, could look after him, make him laugh, save him from the less palatable thoughts that wound inextricably through him.

Forgetting Q would mean giving up a part of himself he’d had since he was six years old. Forgetting Q was losing a closest, oldest friend. A confidante, a confessor. A person who knew every part of him, and loved him quite entirely, without hesitation or question.

He didn’t _want_ to forget Q.

“It had to happen,” Q mused quietly, expression sympathetic and sad. “I always knew it would.”

Bond glanced at him sharply, expression hard. “No. This was not inevitable,” he said firmly, trying to make himself believe it as much as Q, trying to somehow find a way in which he could have lived his life _with_ Q.

“Do try and be sensible,” Q chastised fondly, coming nearer, so close to touching, to _contact_. The single thing they could never even hope to have; the simple, lovely fact of just being able to _touch_.

Bond almost reached out, too afraid to do so. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Q half-considered it for a moment, his smile faint. “Well yes, I’m not overly keen on ‘being lost’ either, but needs must,” he returned easily, eyebrow crooked with humour. He was so very beautiful, so unnaturally, impossibly perfect. “I’m hardly going to be gone indefinitely. I’ll be honest, it’s essentially a holiday for me. I’ll kick back in a notional copy of Venice, and wait for you there.”

“Venice,” Bond replied, smiling despite himself. “Okay. Alright, Q. I’ll see you in Venice.”

For the smallest, most ridiculous of moments, Bond could have sworn he could feel Q’s touch on his skin. Warm, thin, elegant, lighter than breath, gravity and everything Bond imagined he would be. “Venice," Q smiled, breath smelling of Earl Grey and mint.

He was gone, a heartbeat later.

\---

Bond’s body curved around her, cradling her so close, water dripping from her hair and the corners of her lips, so red, so beautiful, and now – wholly lost.

“Oh, James,” a soft voice breathed. “I am so sorry.”

A moment of silence, before a low, throttled cry. “Not her,” Bond pleaded, with a type of desperation. “Please, Q. I can’t lose her, I can’t…”

Arms linked around Bond’s body, a chin tucked into the junction of shoulder and neck, holding him in a way that didn’t ask him to move or flinch. The being just stayed static, clinging onto Bond as though he could hold the jagged edges of the man together.

“You need to go,” Q murmured, his touch like water. “ _James_. Authorities will be here soon, you can’t be seen with her. I’m so sorry. I never imagined…”

Bond laughed with a low, harsh sound, through his tears, the distorted vision of his Vesper. He had believed – for a little while, just a little while – that he could truly stay with her, have a life with her, the absurdities of a secret agent falling in love and running away. Of course it could never work.

And of course, Q had known that.

Collapsing in a hotel room, Q’s almost-warmth still pressed against him, a hand in his. It was the wrong hand, not _her_ hand, but it was Q – and that was very, very nearly enough.

“I’m so sorry,” Q breathed again, as Bond collapsed at the foot of the bed, sobbing like a child, somewhere behind closed doors where nobody could see his weakness.

Bond let out a slow exhale. Everything was calming by increments, slow, languid increments. “I got you back,” he murmured, after a while. “Is that…? I came here, thinking I could find you again. I missed you. I never thought it would mean losing her.”

Q was quiet for a little, painful moment. “Would you have come?” he asked softly. “Wait, no. Don’t answer that, that’s unfair.”

Bond glanced up, almost managing to smile. “I don’t know,” he said, very honestly. He loved Vesper, but he loved Q too. The two could not exist at the same time, but god _damn it_ , he had wanted them to.

They stayed quiet for a moment. Q remained cross-legged, opposite him, smiling slightly.

A flicker of something.

Bond reached forward, placed a hand on Q’s arm.

Scrambled backwards, utterly _terrified_ , and this was turning into a day of far too many fucking emotions. He was not supposed to be doing this. He was a damn _secret agent_ , emotional detachment was supposed to near-enough characterise him, not this, _not_ this.

“You’re not real,” Bond told Q, who just raised an eyebrow at him.

Reality is awfully subjective, from time to time.

“I think there are better times to have this conversation,” he said softly, leaning forward, wrapping Bond in too-solid arms, letting the shell-shocked agent fall to pieces.

\---

Q sat cross-legged opposite him, smiling the wonky smile he tried whenever he didn’t quite know what to say. He had been like this when Bond’s parents had first died, the very first time he appeared: a lonely, heartbroken little boy wished for somebody to keep him company.

There had been Q. For decades, always Q. Throughout the training and missions and all the ridiculous things Bond had seen and done, there was a clipped accent and soft voice and green, green eyes and a smile that broke thing apart.

When Bond first killed another person, he cried for two hours. Q stayed, throughout. Never coming closer, never crossing that subtle boundary that kept Q unreal, a false presence somewhere.

Vesper had rendered his role redundant. Bond had somebody he could touch, could hold. He had the person he could tell his secrets to, who would love him quite entirely, and whom he loved in return. Time became meaningless, with her. Every moment was a subtle eternity he would give everything to keep.

She had suggested Venice, and Bond’s heart jumped. Just because. They had been so constant, so stable. Vesper and Bond moved in a circling rhythm, adapted so absolutely to one another that the introduction of the only thing Bond regretted losing could not have been so momentous. Surely.

When matters turned to ashes – and only then – was it possible to get Q back.

“How is it I can touch you?” Bond asked softly, Q’s head in his lap, dark strands downy soft.

Q closed his eyes for a moment, his warmth not shaking the ice under Bond’s skin, the paralysis of loss that nothing can reach. “You need me,” Q replied, softer than breath – and that made sense, just about. Bond had needed somebody to talk to, and Q had been there, always.

Now, he needed something more. It made sense, really, that Q was giving him that.

Contact. Just simple _contact_.

“Will it last?” he asked, voice catching a little, throat still closing on itself intermittently.

Q’s expression contracted for the smallest of moments. “It may well do,” he admitted, and abruptly glanced to Bond’s face. “I hope it doesn’t.”

“Why?”

Q lifted slim fingers to dance over Bond’s face, feeling him for the first time, revelling in it while he still could. “I’m not real,” he whispered gently, so much pain.

It could never last, should never last.

Despite everything, Q couldn’t help but pray Bond’s mind was not quite so broken.

Bond leaned forward, kissed his forehead, felt a warmth of something span his entire body. “You’ll stay like this, for as long as I need you?” Bond asked, for clarification. Q shrugged slightly, fingers tightening, terrified by the prospect of being lost again. He had missed James just as much.

A soft sigh, tickling Q’s ear.

“I’ll never stop needing you again,” Bond told him, with breathtaking gravity.

Q’s eyes slid shut, and he smiled to rival the sun.


	68. The Rogue Q/Bond fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi can I have a fic with both Q and Bond gone rogue, and ending up doing MI6’s job better than the secret service? :3 I have a thing for your writing and rogue 00Q~ - anon

“Sir, we’re receiving reports from the Istanbul crisis… it would seem our target is dead, 001 has been rendered redundant. Large explosion in the hostile camp, an entire unit has been eliminated…”

“How in the _hell…?_ ” M ranted, running a hand through his cropped hair, teeth grinding.

Eve glanced at him, her expression faintly apologetic. “It’s them again,” she murmured reluctantly.

M let out a string of imaginative curses.

-

“Superb, James,” Q crowed, face lighting with the glow of an exploding building, his smile bright and utterly infectious. Bond laughed, tugging Q by the waist, coaxing the younger man away before MI6 descended like proverbial locusts.

They ran, Q transferring from smartphone to laptop, typing while Bond drove through dirt track streets. “Left our calling card,” Q said with absolute satisfaction, glancing at Bond as he skirted around a civilian and collection of goats. “No unplanned casualties, and a terrorist group eliminated. Confirmed hit on target; their leader is dead. We did it.”

Bond said nothing. He looked ahead, noted no incoming traffic, leaning over to kiss his lover deeply. “We did it,” he grinned. “ _Fuck_ MI6, we did it.”

“Told you,” Q smirked; they had finished three, rather successful missions now, internationally. They had contacts that were prepared to supply them with various bits of equipment – including drugs for Q, when they flew anywhere – at a fair rate, while picking up bits of their own profit through side-contracts. Bond had conducted a few assassinations, Q some contract hacking. The MI6 work was what they wanted to be doing, but international peace didn’t _precisely_ pay the bills.

They were doing quite extraordinarily. MI6 were intent on tracking them down now – rogue agents were bad enough. Those who then proceeded to _humiliate_ MI6 were a new, and exceptionally unpleasant, novelty.

“I love you,” Q breathed, adrenaline living in his veins, pulsing through him.

Bond turned to him, smiled. “Love you too, Quartermaster,” Bond said with a dash of sarcasm, and winked.

\---

 

It was difficult to know what to do about Q and 007. Technically, they were doing nothing even faintly legal – hits on unsupported locations, infiltrations, takeovers and takedowns and kills left, right and centre – and yet, they were doing truly excellent work.

If they had still been working for MI6, they would have been entirely invaluable. As it was, the pair had made no contact, and had actually _spurned_ any attempts by MI6 to get in touch.

M was past the point of caring about whether they were being legal or not. He would have been delighted to have them both back, if the red tape was slightly less substantial, if _anything_.

As it was, they needed to be warned. By MI6, by somebody. They had attracted attention, and not of a good kind; Q and Bond were excellent, but they were two people against multitudes, all of whom needed to protect their interests. MI6 were far from incompetent – if not the level Q and Bond could manage on their own – and both the rogue agents had missed vital information before. They were not infallible.

With the movements rising against them, they needed to be. M upped the searches for both agents, worry creasing his forehead, aware that he should care far less about two agents who were technically no longer his concern.

-

Q purred into Bond’s hands as he completed the final keystrokes, letting Bond tug him into a kiss. “Over and out,” he murmured against Bond’s lips, nose nudging the ex-agent’s playfully.

Bond kept his arms wrapped about Q’s body, intimate and warm, breath tickling the side of Q’s neck. “Any probes?” he asked gently, not doubting Q’s security, but certainly dubious of MI6 trying to get involved.

“The usual array,” Q smirked. “At least four, badly-concealed MI6 attempts, Yanks, Russians, Chinese… nothing we need to worry about, for the time being.”

Bond nodded, kissing Q on the top of his head before padding into their kitchen; they were camping out in a house in France, quite far south, a holiday home that lay dormant during the winter months.

The gunshots rang through the front window, Bond immediately hitting the floor. “I’ll hold them, Q, you go,” Bond called; there was no answer, and Bond could only assume Q was already making his escape.

A crackle in the earpiece Q had him wearing at all hours. “Back exit, I have a clear path,” he told Bond clearly. “Semi-automatic in the back room, rig it, jam the trigger down. While that’s firing, run. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Received,” Bond replied with a grunt, darting towards the back of the house; as Q had told him, a fully-loaded semi was waiting on a stand. Bond found the small device Q had installed to keep the trigger deployed, hit it, and dutifully ran in the opposite direction. Their assailants, believing themselves to be under heavy return fire, would have no option but to wait.

Giving Bond approximately seventeen seconds.

He made it in ten, Q waiting outside on a motorbike. “This could get old,” the younger man noted, voice only audible in the earpiece, otherwise swallowed by peripheral noise.

Bond clung onto him, let Q take them both away.


	69. The Guardian Angel fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond’s mother always said that he has a gaurdian angle, but what happens when that gardian is his Quatermaster??? Nobody can see Q’s wings except Bond and he doesn’t know why. Fluff please?????? I will give you a million invisible cookies!!! – anon

“Excuse me…”

“007,” Q interjected, his smile faint; Bond stalled, as he glanced at the young man.

The wings were elaborate, elegant. Now that Bond was examining the boy, they were clarifying, becoming more opaque, each distinct feather blending together into a wingspan that had to be several feet.

Bond couldn’t speak.

“I’m rather late,” Q said with a light, gentle smile. “My apologies. I’m your new Quartermaster.”

“You’re a great deal more than that,” Bond said through a closed throat; he reached out, fingers brushing the wings, feeling the soft, downy feathers. “ _Shit_.”

“A little less conspicuous would be lovely,” Q commented lightly; Bond sat, tracing down to the wing roots over Q’s shoulderblades, feeling where they protruded out. Nobody in the gallery appeared to have noticed the _winged man_ in the middle of the room; Bond eyed the room uncomfortably, reassuring himself that he wasn’t going insane.

Bond’s fingers brushed forward, gently touching Q’s face. “They can’t see you,” he said aloud, letting his hand fall away

“They’re only tangible to you,” Q said calmly, quietly. “Custom-made, as it were. Nobody can see them, touch them. I can protect you, and only you, and you are the only person who will _ever_ know they’re there.”

“… she always said,” Bond murmured, to himself, blue eyes still oddly wide. “You’re my…”

“Shh,” Q said quickly, glancing around the room. “Not here. We will discuss this fully some other time. In the interim, I have your equipment; try not to lose any of it, hmm?”

Bond smiled despite himself, accepting the envelope, the few things Q passed him. “No exploding pen?”

“We really don’t go in for that kind of thing any more,” Q said with a thin smile, almost patronising. “And in any case – you seem to find enough ways of nearly killing yourself on a daily basis without my help, don’t you think?”

A simple nod, a final glance over the wings. “I will be seeing you again,” Bond said slowly, carefully.

“Naturally. Be safe, won’t you?” Q said, with a hint of amusement.

Bond was still smirking as the young man, his _guardian angel_ , walked away.

\---

 

Q smiled slightly at the agent, as he blazed his way through MI6. “Welcome back, Bond,” he said calmly, as Bond shut the door of his office with a resounding slam, turning to Q with a livid expression. Q just sighed. “Yes, it’s a pleasure to see you too.”

“She died,” Bond hissed at him. Q raised an eyebrow.

“I noticed.”

Bond was almost _breathless_ with anger. “You’re a god damn _guardian angel_. She was important to me, the last person of any fucking importance…”

“My role in this is to keep _you_ alive,” Q pointed out mildly, not overwhelmingly impressed by Bond’s histrionics. “M’s death was sincerely regrettable, in particular given the effect it had – and is having – on your mental state…”

“Guardians can keep loved ones alive,” Bond roared at him, tipping over Q’s spare chair – Q raised an eyebrow, but said nothing – before abruptly stilling, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

Q watched placidly, a little unnerved, but not surprised. Guardian angels were known to do extraordinary things for the protection of their subjects; defying all odds, resurrections, manipulation of people and elements and worlds. “It was her time,” Q said softly. “I’m sorry, James. There’s only so much I can do.”

The ring of truth – regret, sadness, sympathy – was obvious. Bond shut his eyes, leaning against Q’s office door, the intensely blue gaze shut off from observation. “I had assumed that you could do anything,” Bond admitted, glancing at the unassuming boy. “Silva…”

“That was a human aberration,” Q conceded. “I’m not… perfect. In any case, she was not – and will not be – the last person you love. If she were, I would have done more.”

Bond glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?” he asked, in a ringing, almost cold tone. Q’s lip twitched in a smile, and he shook his head slightly; he wouldn’t be able to tell Bond, regardless of how much he wanted to.

“Your life is far from over, I’m here now because you’ve only just started to need me, believe it or not,” Q smirked, as Bond rattled through the infinite other points in his life where it would have been damn useful to have a guardian angel. “You could handle your own life, before. Apparently, you now need help.”

The denial slipped out on instinct, mostly because Bond rather resented being ‘dependent’ on anybody at all, detested the implication that he couldn’t handle his own life.

Q just raised an eyebrow, politely amused. “Don’t worry, Bond. I’ll only interfere as far as necessary,” he smirked, and waved the man away.


	70. The Asylum fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00Q asylum au: Bond’s been living in a mental ward for quite a while due to sudden uncontrollable rages. He takes a rare shine to a quiet new admittance named Q and during one of his episodes Q’s able to calm him down without any injury to his person. The staff thinks this is great progress and start encouraging them to interact more. They don’t realize until it’s to late that Bond’s triggers are attuned to Q’s moods so if Q’s upset Bond’s violence returns. – anon

Bond was perfectly fine, for a great proportion of the time. Altogether, it was a great pity that he fell apart quite so quickly and easily, and without any discernible triggers. His anger was breathtaking, dangerous to almost everyone in the vicinity, impossible to deal with without heavy medication or solitary confinement, somewhere he couldn’t hurt himself or others.

Q was new. A young, fragile boy, subject to clinical depression and some delusional episodes. Admitted after yet another suicide attempt.

Within a few days, the pair had started talking. Bond seemed to be relatively calm around Q; staff noted that his episodes, which were usually at least twice daily, reduced abruptly.

It was with utter horror that staff witnessed Bond descending into one of his rages while Q sat with him; as the elder began to yell, lashing out, Q just watched him, staff panicking. Q spoke in his soft voice, expression far from fearful, reaching forward to place elegant fingers on Bond’s arm.

Staff tried to intervene, get Q away before he wound up hurt.

To their immense shock, Bond started to calm of his own accord. Q kept his hand where it was, non-confrontational, a gentle coaxing bringing Bond back to sitting, breathing too-harshly, face flushed but still in control, almost. Bond almost never allowed physical contact; Q’s touch should have made Bond lash out, as it did with everybody else.

It didn’t. Q’s faint, spidery smile kept Bond tethered, the faint pressure of his fingers somehow welcome.

Unsurprisingly, staff started placing them together. Bond’s episodes became less frequent, Q’s faint smile a little more confident as they came to know one another better, each keeping the other a little steadier than before.

It didn’t initially occur to anybody that Bond and Q’s relationship would be anything to worry about. They seemed happy, honestly healing a little; it was far from perfect, but it more of a start than anybody had seen on either patient in years.

Far too long later, they realised the correlation. A dip, a relapse for Q, the younger man almost catatonic, crying brokenly to himself. Bond’s anger, unleashed on everything, the pair working in a terrifying, dysfunctional counterpoint.

The two refused to be split. Q’s mood plummeted to dangerous lows, Bond unable to get through a couple of hours without another episode. Keeping them apart ceased to be a tenable option.

Co-dependency was a dangerous thing, in a psychiatric unit. The two could not be expected to survive only as long as the other did; if one died, if one lost control, both would spiral.

Q curled against Bond’s side, the first person to touch him properly in years. Bond tucked an arm over Q’s slim body, protecting the unlikely young man from harm, his own mind very still. They needed one another, but couldn’t be permitted to continue as they were.

Staff watched with almost sadness as Q slept, nuzzling against Bond’s arm, Bond resting his chin on the top of Q’s head and breathing him in.

\---

Q moved into Bond’s room, in practise. He just slept there. Nothing happened beyond that; it was simply easier, for both of them, to be in direct contact with one another.

Staff disagreed, but trying to prise the two apart was easier said than done. The moment Bond lost track of Q, his anger began to steadily rise again – equally, if Bond became angry, Q retreated ever further into himself. Their stability depended one another.

“You’ll wait for me, won’t you?” Q asked softly, green eyes bleak. “When… they’ll let you out before me, you know that. They won’t let me go for a while, not with… not with everything… and I want, I want to be able to cope on my own but I found you and I need you now and I’m scared, James, and… I don’t want to lose you.”

Bond tentatively tucked an arm around the younger man, Q spreading over, limbs toppling in various ungainly heaps. “I promise you, Q – I will not leave you,” Bond told him, with tremendous gravity. “We’ll both be out of here, at some point. We’ll go find a flat somewhere, get a cat for you.”

Q half-smiled, fingers playing in the texture of Bond’s shirt. “It still hurts,” he murmured, so quiet, so fragile.

“Do you still want to die?” Bond asked, perfectly calm; Q buried his face further into Bond’s embrace, hiding from the world, and it was more than enough of an answer. “That’s okay,” Bond soothed, stroking Q’s hair. “It’ll get better.”

“With you, it already is,” Q confessed, eyes closing, letting out a long sigh.

They had never kissed. Never had sex secretly somewhere, never shared overused words or revelled in one another, not obviously. No, their companionship was something far more intimate, something growing in strength by the second, unstoppable.

Bond relaxed too, let the increasingly familiar sense of absolute calm build. Q could do that. He made the rush of everything, every second of impossible speed and volume, the screaming of the world, the scream that lived under Bond’s skin – it all quieted.

“I think I love you,” Q told him one evening, in the dark, their bodies separate but minds level. “Is that odd?”

Bond smiled at the ceiling. Of course it was odd.

Weren’t they all, here.

“I think I love you, too,” he replied calmly, and stretched out a hand to the other bed, a chasm of space covered in a heartbeat.

Q’s wondering hand reached out, fingers brushing.

Contact.


	71. The Poisoned!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I never prompted before and I have an idea so I jumped to your beautiful blog. I might be pscyhopath though… Q is poisoned by someone who hates Bond, coughs blood, Bond feels guilty… Q survives or not, it’s up to you. Angsty fic! – anon

Bond was still laughing, Q finishing the last of his glass of wine when he actually _read_ the note, the slip of paper that he had found in his pocket barely a minute previously.

_I hope your date enjoys his drink – AB_

Later, Bond would work out who. Later, he would _kill them_.

Before that, he reached forward, knocking the glass from Q’s hand with a violent motion; the glass fell out of his hand, caught in Bond’s, Bond examining it while Q’s face flickered with confusion. “James…”

“We have to go,” Bond said sharply, fishing for his mobile, speed-dialling. “Agent 007, Bond, James, requesting priority medical,” he told the voice at the other end, rattling off the restaurant address. “Q, can you stand?”

There was a moment of horrific silence. Bond looked at his lover, Q already pale, lips bloodless.

“… no,” Q murmured, very softly. Q’s expression was not frightened, curiously, but sad. The gravity of that word only impacted a moment later.

“Q’s been poisoned,” Bond said simply; the other end panicked, medical deployed instantly to seek them out. A fire alarm started blaring; the other diners cursed, abandoning their meals as waiters shepherded them out. They tried to approach Bond and Q; one look was enough confirmation, and they retreated quickly.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Q said quietly, blinking, tears beginning to track down his paper-white cheeks. “James…”

He was interrupted as his body suddenly jackknifed inwards, more violently than Bond had known possible. Bond slid in front of him as Q toppled off the chair with the force of his motions, hacking, blood in his palm, corner of his mouth.

They had targeted Q because of Bond. Not because they knew who Q was, his job, anything. Just because he was with Bond, and they’d decided to take revenge via somebody he cared for.

“Q, you stay with me,” Bond said urgently, holding Q in his arms, the younger man whimpering with pain. “Listen. You’re going to be alright, Medical are on the way, alright?”

“Chest hurts,” Q rasped, coughing again, body arching in Bond’s hands. “ _Fuck_ , James …”

Bond felt his hands tremble, kissing the top of Q’s head. “Q, you trust me. I am _telling you_ , you will be alright. I will make sure of it. Alright? _Q_. Alright?”

Q managed a slight nod, elegant hands drawn up to his chest, probing just under the ribs. Bond’s hand closed over Q’s, the other hand supporting his head, the younger man beginning to burn to the touch. “M’scared,” Q mumbled, blood staining Bond’s white shirt while the fire alarm continued to wail.

The medical team arrived almost unexpectedly, pulling an almost limp Q out of Bond’s arm, Bond watching as Q let out a soft cry, body contorting in hacking, desperate coughs once again.

Bond was still watching as the coughing abruptly stopped. Q sucked in a rattling, throttled swallow of air, toppling back against the carpeted, red-streaked floor.

The image of Q’s spattered palm was what lingered. The rest somehow was less relevant, but Q’s hands – they were everything, Q’s life, his livelihood, his escape and his freedom.

The red dotted the white, fingers curled slightly, limp, unresponsive.

\---

 

Bond remained in a curious paralysis, eyes burning with the afterimage of Q’s bloodied hand. The Quartermaster’s slim fingers seemed somehow jagged, rather than the elegant curves Bond was used to.

He was clinging to life by the slimmest thread. The Medical team had managed to counteract the poison itself, but far too late; the damage wrought on Q’s body was enough to render him near enough lifeless.

There was nothing Bond could do for Q. Medical were excellent at their jobs, regardless of how much Bond detested them when sequestered there himself; he left the lifeless form of his partner behind, resolving to trace down whatever bastard had tried to kill one of the few people in Bond’s life who actually mattered.

-

Q felt like he was surfacing from a great deal of time spent drowning. Each exhale bubbled a little, liquid trickling over his lips, thin and eloquent. The inhales were a sucking in of pure fluid, clogging his throat, leaving him insensate and terrified as water rushed over his face again, and he went under.

-

Bond found them easily enough.

It appeared that Bond had managed to kill off somebody important. Not vital, not quite, but important enough; nobody had noticed, it hadn’t even cropped up on MI6’s radar. A mission had required the elimination of a certain threat, one man died as collateral, his organisation took revenge.

To be honest, their management of the situation had been exemplary. Poetic, even. Managing to poison Q in the first place, let alone placing a note in Bond’s pocket without the agent noticing; it was craftsmanship at its finest, exquisite in execution.

Bond told them as much with frightening calm, before shooting them.

Those first few shots were designed to not be fatal.

-

The poison was an artfully designed little thing, targeted specific aspects of the bloodstream. In short, Q had been left with a form of haemophilia – and the coughing, the original spasms, had caused minute lesions in the throat and oesophagus. While Medical had managed to get an antidote to prevent the spasms, they took longer to realise that there was a more profound problem; it became quickly evident that Q was literally drowning in his own blood.

His pale body was given transfusions, stomach pumped to evacuate the excess blood that he inadvertently swallowed. The wounds bled sluggishly, persistently, as Medical sourced a coagulant for the affected factor in his blood, trying to keep Q alive long enough for it to make a difference.

Bond watched, head in his hands, rendered entirely mute. Q had been caught in the crossfire, again. It wasn’t the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

It had never been like this before, though. Q had never been damaged to such a degree that he was only alive through sheer bloody obstreperousness.

Q was not dead. That was much evidenced by the incremental motions of his chest, a rhythmic rise and fall, steady and continuous and not failing, not yet. The stubborn bastard clung onto life with everything he had.

Q was not alive, either. The parts of him that Bond loved – his mind, his energy, his spark – were dormant, leaving a shell of a human being, a facsimile of Bond’s Q.

If Q woke up, if he survived, it was temporary. The next time, the time after, the time after that – one of them would kill him. Bond was a lethal person to be associated with in any capacity. M had put it quite succinctly: _how many is that, now?_

He could fill books with lists of names, the people who loved him, whom he killed by proxy.

Bond’s eyes slid closed.

\---

 

Q let out a soft noise in his sleep, eyes abruptly flying open, wide and frantic.

“Hey,” murmured a soft voice. “Q? Q, can you look at me?”

Through nothing more than immense force of will, Q twisted his head to one side, the movement heavy and treacly. He was a long way from a full range of motion, body and blood still trying to recover, somehow, from the poison that had raged through it.

Q let out a soft, plaintive sound as he tried to lift his head. “What the _fuck_ happened?” he managed, a little slurred, lips moving like butterfly wings, delicate and rapid.

Bond explained in economic words, Q’s eyes sliding shut, brain only managing to concentrate on one thing at a time, and keeping his eyes open was genuinely involving brain power at the present moment. “… but you’re okay, Q,” Bond completed, hand covering Q’s gently. “I promise.”

Q gave a very slight nod, and fell asleep again, not noticing the bleakness in Bond’s eyes in the seconds before he slid away.

-

It took barely a week in hospital for Q to start going stir-crazy. Once conscious, he resented every second wherein anybody tried to prevent him from _doing_ things; he was technically still barred from any and all technology, and at the moment, couldn’t stand.

Bond knew he was being a coward. It didn’t stop him.

 “I don’t understand,” Q said with shattered quiet, stranded on a bed, unable to reach out or pull Bond in or _scream_ about what the man was doing. “James…”

A small contraction in Bond’s forehead, the barest shadow of regret. “I’m sorry, Q,” he murmured.

_How many is that, now?_

Not another. Bond would not be responsible for another. Not one like Q, so uniquely perfect, the kind of creature that could live forever in his computers, could make himself whole in strings of binary. He would survive without Bond, of course he would, god knew he wouldn’t survive _with_ Bond.

Q didn’t understand, of course. He probably never would. Bond felt a shudder of true sadness; he was so young, couldn’t understand how it felt to watch everything you love die, one at a time, a steady stream.

Bond left his now ex-lover in a tight knot on the bed, crying soundlessly, shock the greatest anaesthetic.


	72. The Slave!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It must be so tiring to be so talented. Poor baby. I thank you for being so kind and gracing us mere mortals with your writing. I have a prompt, though, as I am not a selfless person and have my own agenda like any good 00 agent. Bond is a king in some far away land (preferably somewhere exotic ) who gets Q as a present. Being a slave, Q isn’t more then property, but somehow his great mind is discovered and Bond falls in love. Nsfw is allowed, and I beg of you,please a happy ending ! – anon

England. A country named after a place long-dead, in a world infinitely separate from the desert world that Bond ran; the universe spread, worlds spread, human beings colonising an infinite spread of planets, everywhere they found. Bond was the king of England; the deserts rolled like lush green fields, the sky a foggy blue, sandstorms their substitute for rain.

Bond looked over the thin, fragile creature before him. A gift, from a neighbouring country, a signal of their defeat in a recent war. This delicate boy, a gem, was now Bond’s; a simple stretch of cloth covered his groin, the rest of him pale and ethereal and exposed, acres of untarnished skin.

The green of his eyes was fresh and electric, like fields Bond had never seen. He accepted the gift, taking the young boy for his own, a slave to his every whim.

He was beautiful. Bond explored him in the bedroom, the boy moaning and gasping and crying out at all the correct moments, while Bond near-lost himself to the ceaseless, unerring pleasure that the boy could bestow. Trained, most likely, or simply talented.

Q remained deferentially quiet in all other moments, his voice a gentle lull when he spoke, the careful intonation and accent quite perfectly constructed. He was everything Bond could have wished for.

His intelligence was discovered quite by accident. Bond had left a tactical strategy map out on a large oaken table, pinned down at the corners by heavy lumps of precious gems, all uncut. He walked in to find his slave, fingers playing over indications of spaceships and soldiers, shifting one or two factors, changing the board quite entirely.

“How did you know what to do?” Bond asked sharply; Q jumped, falling to his knees, a known position of submission. “ _Well_?”

Q was very still, staring at the floor. “I read about it,” he murmured. “Tactical war strategies, historical movements, the art of warfare.”

“You can read?” Bond asked, almost impressed; slaves were often illiterate, nobody had the time to teach them.

Q nodded, still glancing at the floor. “I taught myself, I had help, but I wanted to and my old… masters, they had books,” he explained, voice still very quiet, body tense as though prepared for a blow.

Bond placed a gentle hand on his slave’s head, feeling the slight cringe, aware that the boy was terrified of being harmed. “You’re clever,” Bond stated, crooking a finger under Q’s chin, lifting his wide-eyed gaze to him. “Show me.”

Q scurried to his feet, the netted gold collar around his throat clinking slightly, bare arms reaching out to point and explain and articulate, as best he could. Bond just watched, his slave abruptly talking faster than he knew possible, those green eyes sparkling with energy.

Oh, but he was beautiful.

\---

Bond’s mouth crooked in a faint smile, glancing over his young slave.

Q had been near enough employed; he had a spectacular mind for war when pressed, an instinct as to where to post different regiments, how to construct an offensive. Bond found himself absurdly fond of the boy.

The evenings found him close to Q’s throat, kissing and biting gently, Q gasping out Bond’s name again and again. Bond had allowed first name terms, and Q exploited that for all he was worth, pink lips circling _James_ again and again, as Bond explored him, took him to pieces.

“Your theory on the Michigan clan worked,” Bond breathed in Q’s ear, the boy shifting to take him deeper, whimpering faintly as Bond’s fingers brushed his length. “I’m impressed, Q.”

A soft sigh, a deep kiss. “I’m clever,” he murmured, rocking his hips back and forth, Bond smiling. “James, your _highness_ , please. You know what I’m asking.”

Bond’s hips snapped forward a little too harshly, making the boy hiccup slightly. “I cannot free you, Q. You’ll disappear.”

“I won’t,” Q replied instantly, lips and tongue dancing over Bond, his face and throat, pulse points, making everything shiver with want. “ _Please_. I’ll stay, I’ll be good. It’s just the title, the wording of it…”

Bond’s fingers traced the collar over Q’s throat, gold, wrought, the universal indicator of what he was. “You were a gift to me. It would be construed as appalling manners, to release you.”

“They won’t _care_ , I promise. I _promise_. I just want my freedom. I don’t _want_ to go…”

Another sharper motion, and Q fell very quiet. Bond refused to speak, and thus neither did Q; Bond came with a grunt, Q with a low breath, and they split apart, together but separate.

When Bond spoke, Q was awake. He was always awake. It was wisest to be so; Q only slept after Bond did, waiting until he could escape into himself. “I like having you,” he said, voice very cold.

Q kept his eyes closed, forehead contracting a little. “I know,” he replied quietly. “Would you not prefer me of my own volition? I do… if you want me, I’ll…”

“Social climbing seems an insufficient title for what you’re doing,” Bond commented drily, making Q tense a little. “You are trying for power…”

“I’m _not_ ,” Q insisted, curling over to Bond, lips finding him blindly in the dark bedroom. “Trust me, James. I don’t want anything from you, but this. Keep me here, do exactly the same if you want, but I just… I’m treated like shit here, and you know it. I’m your slave, and nothing else, and I hate it.”

Bond’s voice became razor sharp. “I could treat you far worse, if you wanted,” he growled, making Q cringe away from him. “You’ve been taking liberties already, Q, and I have allowed it. I will not hear any more of this, do you understand?”

“Okay,” Q replied softly, sadly. “I understand.”

Bond stared at the ceiling, and Q refused to sleep.

\---

The point lingered heavily on both of them, refusing to go away, souring the air between the King and his young slave.

Q was perfect. It could not be denied that Q was entirely, and absolutely, perfect. He did everything that Bond asked of him, performed every duty to the best of his abilities, worked and smiled and nodded and gasped, and did not bring up the subject again.

Bond could not forget about it. He continued to watch Q, documenting him, trying to assess whether the boy had been telling the truth. Whether Q would honestly stay, if given the freedom he longed for.

A part of him had always been curious as to how Q had ever ended up like this. Slaves were usually born, or sold by families, and Q had such a unique accent and manner and temperament that Bond wanted to believe the latter, but every clue Q had ever dropped implied the former. He was beautiful and curious, and Bond absolutely did not want to risk losing him.

Those in the Palace were not kind to slaves. Regardless of Bond’s orders, Q was isolated, ignored, minimised. His brilliance was rarely acknowledged, and a failure to do precisely as directed invariably led to physical discipline – most believed it was the only way to make slaves understand.

Q was something new, different.

The young slave never said a word about his freedom, after broaching it with Bond, after being so coldly refused.

It was the sadness Bond could see in him, once in a while, when he thought nobody could see. When his posture relaxed, slumped, throwing the elegant lines of his body out of order, depressing his torso inwards like a knife to the diaphragm.

Tiny, so tiny, and yet indisputably present.

Q froze at the feeling of fingers, playing over the gold of his collar. They slipped underneath, tightening the gold over the front of his throat, breath catching for the faintest of moments before a sharp sounds – for a disconcerted moment, Q had a terrified wondering of whether his spine had just snapped – and there was an abrupt loss of any tension.

The collar slid away, leaving his throat feeling frighteningly cold. He didn’t dare turn around, felt instead fingers slide over him to replace the collar, lips close to his ear. “You will stay,” Bond ordered, with the gravity of a king, and Q could have sobbed.

Instead, he twisted around, throwing his arms around Bond’s party. “Thank you,” he breathed, craning his head to find Bond’s lips, pressing together, trying to convey just a fraction of his gratitude. “ _Thank you_.”


	73. The Demon!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you write a 00q demon au? – anon

Initially, it was very subtle. Bond was certain he was imagining it, could easily write off the flashes of crimson red he kept half-seeing in Q’s eyes, the faint hiss, the abrupt burn of his skin when Bond touched him.

He knew what it _could_ be, logically. Yet not Q. Not _Q_.

“Yes?” Q asked, his voice low, sulphurous.

Bond’s lips quirked in a faint smile, suggestive, testing their boundaries. “Let me take you to dinner,” Bond told him, not quite a question. Q glanced up and down him, eyes faintly narrowing.

“Do not get involved with me, 007,” Q said with intense quiet, the words spiralling, dissipating. “It would be a monumental mistake for you; there is too much you do not yet know about me.”

“Tell me,” Bond negotiated, leaning over Q, weight balanced on his desk. “My great secret-keeper. Tell me what could _possibly_ be so ‘monumental’…?”

“Out of my office,” Q told him, the sharp hiss audible, spine rolling in a curious contortion. There was something frighteningly, distinctly inhuman about him. Just for a moment, a thinly veiled moment.

Bond blinked. Ignored it. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” Bond promised, daring Q to disagree.

To both of their surprise, he didn’t.

-

The sex was extraordinary, impossible. Everything about them was impossible. They fell into and out of one another like water through various vessels, unable to stay still, never settling.

“Bond, it is of paramount importance that you do not fall in love with me,” Q warned him, in all seriousness. There was a frightening something in his eyes that Bond couldn’t name, and didn’t entirely understand.

At that stage, Bond was not in love. He knew it was possible, though. He could see it.  He could see _Q_ , in all of his various permutations, the boy, the young man, reflected through events and memories and all things, everything.

“I won’t,” Bond said, almost meaning it. He had no intention of falling in love.

Q watched him for a long moment, green eyes streaked with blood. “I am serious,” he said, a little softer. “If you believe you are becoming _in any way_ emotionally compromised, you will tell me. Promise me?”

Bond’s forehead contracted, but he nodded. “Alright,” he murmured, wondering how it could possibly be so important. “I promise.”

-

It happened unexpectedly, ultimately. Bond opened the door to Q’s office, after a mission, returning the equipment. Q looked up at him, and smiled. Just a simple, uncomplicated smile.

Bond knew.

Q did too, judging by the sudden snap of his expression. “Fuck,” he said aloud. “Fucking _hell_ , Bond. I told you to damn well _warn_ me, didn’t I?! You idiot, you absolute fucking _moron_.”

“What do you…?” Bond asked, trailing off. Q was spasming slightly. For the first time, Bond could not even _try_ to deny it; Q’s eyes were red. Genuinely, entirely red, the green irises swallowed. “Q…”

“Get out, Bond. Get out, get out, _get out_ ,” Q shrieked; Bond refused to move, instead moving closer, hand on the _burning_ skin of his young lover as he trembled. “Bond, you have to go. Please. I won’t let you do this, I will _not_ let this happen to you…”

“Let _what_ happen?!”

“ _I’m a demon_ ,” Q shouted at him, fixing the terrifying eyes on him. Bond felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Fuck. He should have seen it coming, he _really_ should have seen it coming. He had been trying to deny the obvious from the outset.

Demons. The creations of Hell, in the most literal way possible. Cursed creatures, fated to roam around the world; they could stay hidden, remain untouchable, even blend into the world to a certain extent.

Unless a human were to fall in love with them.

“ _Fuck_ , Q. Why didn’t you think to _tell me_?!” Bond snapped at him, already knowing the answer – he couldn’t. Demons could not reveal themselves to anybody other than those they had linked souls with.

They’d linked souls. Bond was linked with a demon. Q was a demon.

The thoughts continued to circle. Q stopped shuddered, the heat from his skin slightly shimmering in a haze around him, eyes utterly _blazing_. He was angry. This was the conventional reaction of an angry demon. _Fuck_.

“So…” Bond said aloud, swallowing uncomfortably. “I…”

“You are hooked into my life now,” Q spat, standing, aware of not literally heating up and setting fire to his chair, which was mostly composed of plastic fibres. “I have to keep you alive, or I die. You absolute _bastard_ , Bond. If you die before time, you get sucked into hell, and of fucking _course_ , you’re a double-oh agent. I need to try and keep a _double-oh agent_ from dying ‘before time’. I’d kill you _now_ , if I could.”

“I’m sorry,” Bond muttered, as Q paced. “Really. I didn’t mean to invade your life. You fell in love with me too,” he pointed out, almost petulantly. They only became fully linked once both parties had fallen in love. Q was as guilty as Bond was.

Q turned to him lividly. “Yes, but I noticed that _weeks_ ago,” he hissed. “Why do you think I told you to _warn me_ if you felt emotional attachment?”

“I didn’t exactly see it coming!” Bond argued, rationality apparently taking a backseat in the ridiculousness of this conversation. He was linked to a demon, a bloody _demon_. He had a responsibility to Q now, as much as Q to him. “We’ll work it out, Q. It’ll be fine.”

“I had to fall in love with _you_ , of all goddamn people,” Q griped.

Bond couldn’t help but snort, as Q accidently set fire to a pile of paper on his desk, and Bond realised Q loved him.

\---

 

They were making do as best they could.

The red in Q’s eyes settled back after a little while, but he did manage to scare most of his branch before the green came back. Even then, whenever Bond was mentioned, there was a flicker of crimson that appeared for a fraction of a second.

Nobody minded; demons were relatively commonplace, and they caused no real trouble for anybody. Their souls linked with another human being; even then, it tended to be relatively easily worked around. There was just an added importance to keeping the other alive, which was expected in most couples regardless.

Bond continued to go on missions, Q continued to handle him. Q became ridiculously territorial, refusing to let anybody _near_ 007’s missions, in case of cock-ups. Bond was Q’s responsibility, and unsurprisingly, Q took it damn seriously.

It was a relatively complex mission. Q could not have done anything. Bond probably could have done, but then, Bond was known for his reckless streak. He wore the streak like a badge of honour, these days.

Bond got shot, and Q screamed.

Q-branch found it horrifying to watch. Q staggered back, hands flying to his side, breathing uncertainly as he pressed against a wound that wasn’t there. “No, _no_ ,” he contradicted desperately, trying to reach back for his computer, hysterical and frantic with pain. “ _James_.”

Somewhere, Bond blacked out. Q did the same a heartbeat later.

-

“It seems appallingly unfair that if anything happens to you, I have the triple heartbreak of dealing with your loss, dealing with the _pain_ of whatever kills you, _and_ being dragged back to Hell,” Q murmured, a while later, while Bond lay immobile on a hospital bed. “I don’t _want_ to love you.”

Bond cracked open an eyelid, fixed his bright blue gaze on Q. “You weren’t my first choice either,” he rasped, managing a slim smile, glancing over the blood-red stains through Q’s eyes, skin, fingers. He was barely controlling himself, his emotions too close to the surface now he had found Bond. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Bond continued, hand flapping uselessly as he tried to bring Q closer.

“You need to be more careful,” Q said firmly, reaching out where Bond could not, fingers brushing Bond’s cheek very gently, skin searingly hot. Bond was used to him now, could handle the scorching temperature of being around him.

Bond nodded, eyes sliding shut again. “I’ll do my best.”


	74. The Soldier fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, I love your writing! Honestly, I always look forward to your posts and I was wondering if you could do a 00Q prompt for me? I was coming home from class and heard “Traveling Soldier" by the Dixie Chicks on the radio and it reminded me of Q and Bond, like what if Bond had met an eighteen year old Q just before he was called away and spent the next couple of months/years (?) writing him because he didn’t have anyone else to write to? – anon

Q heard the post coming through the door, and was up like a shot. He always was, these days; it had become habitual, his only reprieve the three days after sending a letter of his own. Those three days, he knew nothing would come, because Bond couldn’t have responded in time.

Today, though. _Today_ , he could have done.

Q padded through his room, his roommate shooting him an amused look – they had shared all year, both studying computer science – as Q let out a soft hiss of delight, the rest of the post discarded in a heap on the side while he ripped into the latest letter.

Bond and Q had met eight months ago, before the former went to Afghanistan. Flirting in a bar, Q on one of his first nights out ever now he was legal in the place, Bond just enjoying an evening to himself.

They spent most of the evening talking, Q abandoning those he’d gone out with to spend the time with Bond, James Bond, instead. It had felt like an old-fashioned date, in a sense; Q, as the younger party, was treated to Bond at the full height of gentlemanly behaviour.

It being the nineties, it was difficult keeping in touch; Q scribbled the address of his university and college, and his home address too, in the hope of keeping in touch. When they parted, Bond pressed a soft kiss to Q’s lips in a way that was entirely innocent and entirely not, and disappeared.

Q had spent _days_ , sitting by the door, waiting for a letter.

The letter had arrived. Q gave a _whoop_ of triumph, scanning it through, Bond’s handwriting the businesslike cursive he’d expected, everything so _right_. He had no reason to want to write – there was no cause for wanting to keep in contact with a skinny, bespectacled kid from a bar, especially when there was no sex or promises or anything involved – but he had written anyway, keeping them linked.

And thus, Q spent a long while exchanging letters. Bond moved into a new area of the army, stopping him from taking leave for a while, stopping a lot of the details over what he was doing. Q left university halfway through after hacking MI6, leaving his name and forwarding address, and waiting to see what they’d do.

As expected, he was given a job on the spot. Q waved goodbye to Cambridge, and began in Q-branch, writing to Bond that he was working for the civil service now and where are you, anyway, I haven’t heard from you in a while.

The death of 007 occurred while Q was still relatively low down in Q-branch. He didn’t really bother to look at the file, didn’t actually correlate the disappearance of 007 with the sudden, complete cessation of letters that had been mostly regular for near enough three and a half years.

He mourned for his James, of course. Q could only assume he’d been killed in action, or just got bored of writing to some dull computer geek with floppy fringe and glasses. Q didn’t know which to hope for; neither option appealed.

He prepared to meet 007, read through his entire file, glanced at his photograph.

And glanced again.

“ _James_ ,” he whispered.

Q deposited all his equipment about his person, shrugged on his parka, left Q-branch quickly, without a further word, heading to the gallery.

His James Bond was waiting.

\---

Bond sat in the large room of the National Gallery, staring blankly at a painting, bored out of his mind; the new Q was late, apparently, which was doing nothing for his dwindling nerves given the situation.

He didn’t look up at the young man ambling closer. Far too young to be anything to do with him. For an odd moment, he remembered the boy he had met in a bar all that time ago, the sweet boy with the emerald eyes, the clever cursive and careful consonants, his voice echoing over paper, so perfectly beautiful. He missed that boy. Yet, after several months without a word, it would be unfair to invade the boy’s life again.

The young man next to him had started talking, in a voice a heartbeat away from a younger boy’s tone, curiously with glasses, and Bond wasn’t listening to a damn word about ships or boats because he had taken one look at the young man’s face, and everything stopped for the oddest, suspended moment.

“I…”

“Q,” Q interrupted softly, smiling lopsidedly, eyes so bright. “I’m Q, James. And you’re… here.”

There was always the chance that Bond had tired of him, had stopped wanting to write, and Q was more scared of that option than he knew possible. He reached out a hand, gently brushing over Bond’s, lips parting in a very quiet sigh.

“You’re _Q_ ,” Bond repeated, almost in disbelief. “I knew you were clever.”

“I’m not _clever_ , I’m _brilliant_ ,” Q teased, and the laughter forced a perfect lightness into his chest, made his heart beat quicker, nothing in the way.

Bond blinked. Looped a hand around the back of Q’s head, and kissed him, right in the middle of the National Gallery, while Q held a lovely customised gun and a radio transmitter and quietly wished he had something a little more impressive on him because really, James deserved it.

Q just let out a soft noise, returned the kiss with everything he had. “I thought you’d died,” he murmured.

“I technically did,” Bond pointed out. “Jesus. You shouldn’t… you’re not with anybody, are you?”

Q let out a pealing, light laugh. “Come on, James. I’m _Q_. I don’t have the time,” he told him, noting the slight depress of Bond’s shoulders. “And in any case,” he continued, more gently, hand seeking Bond’s. “Nobody could ever match up.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “You barely know me.”

“And yet, here we are,” Q parried, and pressed another kiss to Bond’s lips, eyes sliding shut. “Fuck, I _missed_ you. Oh. And _secret agent_?! I wish you could have _somehow_ let me know, so my levels of worry would have been more appropriate. I mean fuck, James, I read your mission notes…”

“You’re my superior,” Bond noted abruptly.

Q and Bond managed exactly four seconds before collapsing with laughter. “Superb,” Q snorted. “I can give you _orders_. First one: dinner? Please?”

Bond smiled in a way that seemed somehow devoid of cunning or implication. Something honest, perfectly open. “Yes,” he replied simply, tracing Q’s cheekbones with a forefinger. “Absolutely.”


	75. The Bulimic!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d like eating disorder Q (cliche I know) in a hospital setting with Bond as the doctor who finally gets through to him.

The boy looked irritated beyond all human conception, from a distance. Yet he still managed to smile at Bond when he came closer, eyes darting up and down him. “Hello,” he said, crisp British accent, charming smile. “You must be my new shrink.”

“That would be me, yes,” Bond replied.

From that first moment, the boy was cataloguing opinions, filing fragments away for future reference. Not being asked to change the relatively derogatory term ‘shrink’ to ‘psychiatrist’, or something more politically correct, was already indicative of the new arrival’s approach; Bond watched with faint amusement as the boy visible pigeonholed him as ‘the maverick they think will get through’.

“James Bond. Just call me James, it’s simpler.”

“No ‘doctor’ prefix?” the boy asked with dry scepticism; another pigeonhole. Hack, with no qualifications. “Let me guess; experimental therapies?”

“I have a whole host of qualifications that you will doubtless examine, at leisure, when you inevitably steal your file off the nurses,” Bond drily stated instead, settling in the next to the boy, watching him for a moment.

He was one of the cases nobody quite knew what to do with. Diagnosed bulimic at the age of thirteen, began age eleven, now just shy of sixteen. Thin, but by no means emaciated. Hospitalised after a suicide attempt, sectioned under the mental health act, now under strict monitoring after a ECG threw up a heart irregularity due to electrolyte imbalances, sustained after years of repeated vomiting.

“I’m Q,” he said, sounding perfectly friendly. That was another point; he was insistently polite to practically everybody. The doctors, nurses, psychiatric consults all adored him. He would have probably managed to talk his way into an early discharge, had Mallory – the head psychiatrist – not smelt a rat.

Shortly afterwards, they found the graveyard of food Q had magicked off his tray during mealtimes, chucked behind the hospital bed in a mounting pile. He had carefully picked things that were wrapped, wouldn’t smell or rot.

After that point, Q declared open war. The resulting chaos wound up with him losing more weight in hospital than he had in several preceding months, a point the boy found ceaselessly ironic.

Bond watched him curiously, as Q asked some basic questions: “CBT?”

“DBT and NLP trained, but it’s an inexact science. I tend to base my approach on the patient,” Bond corrected; Q sighed, barely restraining himself from an eyeroll. Bond smirked at him. “Ah, a deathbed sceptic, are we?”

“That is, in every sense, politically incorrect,” Q pointed out, eyes narrowing a little at Bond’s irreverence.

Bond remained entirely unfazed. “Biologically, on the other hand, pretty much accurate,” he pointed out; Q’s expression froze, shuttered. Bond had his attention, however. It was obvious in the merciless intensity of the boy’s gaze. “So. Tell me what’s wrong with you.”

Q let out an unkind laugh. “Isn’t that your job? Don’t patronise me, you have my entire life story in that file,” he said, nodding at said file.

“As you may have noticed, it is closed,” Bond pointed out. “I’m not working on other people’s assessments of you. You tell me.”

Q’s smile was a contorted, broken-looking thing. He took Bond’s word as a challenge, his tone utterly factual: “Alright. I started inducing vomiting when I was eleven for a multitude of reasons which I have not, and will not, discuss. I know why, and I don’t need ‘therapy’ to make me come to terms with it. What I struggle with is that nearly five years later, I’m still throwing up. Some aspects are habitual, and I intermittently force myself into a pseudo-recovery every once in a while. My last was about six months ago, for three weeks exactly.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Orthostatic hypotension,” Q replied easily. “Impossible to work when I’m blacking out. Also back pain. I spend a handful of weeks without vomiting, being vaguely sensible. My body tends to recalibrate for reasons best known to itself, and I then fall straight back into it despite my best efforts to the contrary.”

"Back pain?"

Q smiled wryly, tone mockingly playful. “One of the things they don’t tell you about. I’ve had back pain for the past four years, more or less without stopping. Always fun."

“Why did you attempt suicide?” Bond asked simply.

“Great bedside manner,” Q snorted derisively. Bond’s expression didn’t change. The boy rolled his eyes, tone flat and openly challenging. “I wanted to die. There come a point, after a decent proportion of your life hating yourself and throwing up ‘n’ number of times per day, where ‘n’ pertains to the infinite, that you don’t particularly want to keep going.”

Bond nodded. It was a relatively truthful response. “Do you still want to kill yourself?”

“It’s a passive desire. I wouldn’t be upset if it happened. I currently lack the impetus – and admittedly, means – to attempt it,” Q explained, voice teetering between sadness, and misplaced anger. It was painful in an unexpected way, watching the almost dispassionate boy explain, in calm words, that he was acquainted with own suicidal intentions enough to define how immediate the problem was.

They talked, a little. Q answered the right questions, in the right order, showing psychological perfection in doing so. He was a model of balanced mental health, in many respects; no physical signs of anxiety, calmly measured speech, cognitive balance and a healthy level of introspection. He’d tried before – and come very close – to convincing psychiatric experts that all his eating problems were much ado about nothing.

Yet he could die the very next time he threw up. One more. Oesophageal rupture, heart attack, brain embolism. The list was endless. He flirted on the edge of death, and didn’t care.

Bond left after an hour, with a little more idea of who Q was, and a little less idea of how in the hell the boy had ended up where he was. He blindingly intelligent, had a good sense of humour, aware of all his strengths and weaknesses in equal measure – and was, somewhat anomalously, bulimic.

The boy had given away nothing of note in the hour. It was afterwards that he betrayed his hand, asking to be transferred over to a different psych consult. Q technically had only minimal say in his psychiatric care, given that he had a history of manipulation and avoidance; they spoke to Bond, who just grinned.

Somewhere, somehow, he’d broken through. Enough for Q to get worried, to realise his disorder would not continue to thrive with Bond involved.

Bond stayed on with Q, and hoped – very quietly, in an understated way – that he would get into the boy’s head, show him ways to defeat the insidious, absurd presence of an eating disorder. Help him find reasons to cling onto life, not linger mutely on the edges, playing games with his existence.

“Hello,” Q muttered the next morning, cagy, clearly wary.

“Good morning, Q,” Bond replied simply, and tried to coax the boy into talking.

\---

 

Q smiled slightly, looking bored out of his mind. He raised an eyebrow when Bond walked in. “Hello,” he said politely, before glancing away, wishing passionately for a book or _something_ , the boredom was driving him insane.

Bond settled in his customary chair, and waited. And waited.

Neither of them said a word.

“Why?” Bond asked, a gunshot sound, abrasive and angry.

Q just looked up at him, almost amused by the question. Certainly intrigued by his apparent _anger_ , which seemed odd, and no shrinks were supposed to get _angry_ , so really, this was all quite impressive. “Why do you think?” he asked quietly, not even slightly apologetic.

Another suicide attempt. Q had managed to palm his meds – and everybody was still struggling to work out _how_ – and overdosed, the previous night. Entirely calm. He managed to re-route all his monitors so they remained consistent, in a clever little show of technical wizardry. If it hadn’t been for unexpected rounds by the nursing staff, nobody would have known.

Honestly, Bond had thought Q was doing better. He was being possibly scheduled for discharge. Q had to know that.

Of course. Q _knew_ that.

“You don’t want to go home,” Bond realised, sighing at the obviousness of it, his own stupidity. Q looked up sharply, mouth pressed to an abruptly thin line, almost murderous in intensity as he stared at Bond, saying not a single word. “Tell me.”

Q’s expression was utterly closed. He refused to release so much as a suggestion of true emotion. “I love my family,” he said quietly, mutinously. Q glanced up sharply, brow contracting, suddenly concernedly honest. “I really do.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bond said softly, in the type of tone reserved for vulnerable patients, those who were non-compliant and were finally talking, those who needed special care.

Q let out a disgusted snort, shaking his head, and Bond realised he’d shattered the lifeline without being entirely sure how. “Patronising bastard,” Q said lividly, eyes _blazing_. “Jesus, you have pretentions of not being like them, but in the end you’re all the fucking same.”

The tone. An incorrect _tone of voice_ , and Q was gone.

“I’m not used to patients like you,” Bond admitted frankly. The boy – all teenage angles and bottled anger and livid pain, turned to him, sad and pained and desperate. “Q…”

He smiled with an edge. “Yes. If you thought of me as a _human being_ , rather than a patient, perhaps this would be simpler?” he suggested, before anger clouded over again, and Bond got nothing sensible out of him for the rest of their session.

 

\---

Q was in the corner of the room, fingers dancing over picture frames, the words caught inside. “Hello,” Q said mildly, as Bond entered, going for his chair and placing briefcase and papers in a pile.

Bond glanced over at him, slightly taken aback; Q never really spoke to him, if he could humanly avoid it. “Hello,” Bond replied with a nod, watching him carefully. “How’re you doing?”

A slight shrug, Q running a hand through his relatively long hair and moving to the chair opposite. He had been allowed out of the hospital bed, given some freedom to move in the rest of the hospital; restricted to the psychiatric unit, but a boy like Q needed some form of autonomy.

“They’re letting me out,” Q murmured, eyes a little distant. “I’m supposed to be happy about it, and I’m not.”

“Because?”

Q looked up at him quickly. “You know why. I won’t say it, but we both know it.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, curious and quiet. “Why not talk about it?” he asked, trying to tread carefully. Q had a temper like quicksilver – although it had to be said, physical health and lack of repeated vomiting had somewhat helped with his mood swings – and a misstep on Bond’s part could lead,  _had_  led, to many problems over the past few weeks of therapy.

Naturally, Q refused to say a word more on that subject. “How’s your eating?”

Q looked at him with dark, hollow eyes. “As I’m certain you’re aware, I’m now at a stage of medical stability. I’m eating regularly, am at a supposedly ‘normal’ weight, and have been carefully guarded against any bloody  _chance_  of vomiting. So my eating is absolutely delightful.”

At least, Bond mused, he had stopped trying to lie. Previously, Q had tried to form perfect little constructions of how his mental and physical state were correlating, pitching his ‘recovery’ to be textbook perfect while Bond simply listened, and then called absolute bullshit on everything Q was saying.

“Body image?”

Q just raised an eyebrow, voice liberally drenched with sarcasm. “You heard the phrase ‘normal weight’, yes? What do you think? I feel like absolute shit, and am sincerely contemplating ripping parts of my anatomy off. But, I’m not throwing up and I’m actually beginning to  _like_  not throwing up, and it’s less constant and I’m bored out of my mind in here, so I’m watching the days before they release me into the wilds of suburbia once again, or the NHS decides I’m treatment-resistant and don’t merit attention any longer. Your guess is as good as mind on which.”

Bond sighed slightly. It was true; Q was inches away from falling through the gaps. Nothing was getting through. A little longer, and the brilliant young man would be faced with the possibility of somehow healing on his own, or being sectioned for the foreseeable future. “Q, you’ll still be on outpatient for a while, you know that. You said you’re liking not throwing up?”

“Newsflash: throwing up is not a fun experience,” Q retorted drily. “Mostly, indicative of some of my self-harm urges receding a little. Before you ask: yes, they’ve done the checks, and I have an all-clear on the masochistic urge to injure myself. Not just saying it to get you to leave me alone.”

It was impossible to not smirk. “And there I thought  _everything_  you said was to get me to leave you alone,” Bond quipped, not unkindly.

To his surprise, Q graced him with a genuine, honest smile.

\---

Bond read the report, and just raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck that,” he muttered, and reached for his phone.

-

Q sat opposite.

He was looking mostly alright; not well, not by a long shot, but he didn’t look like he was imminently going to keel over, which Bond could only consider a positive development. “Q…”

“Why am I here?” the boy interrupted, before Bond had a chance to finish.

Quite frankly, Bond didn’t have an answer for him. Q was there because Bond had asked him to be there. He was there because Bond had called Q, and informed him that the NHS had – as anticipated – labelled him treatment-resistant, which meant that money was no longer going to get thrown as his attempts for recovery. He was there because Bond knew full damn well nobody would pay for Q’s therapy, which meant somebody bloody well had to.

Bond was offering his services for free, because simply, he couldn’t bear to watch a young man like Q die.

Q just blinked at him, which had to be one of the most intimidating things in the entire world.

“This is not exactly patient-therapist protocol,” Q threw out, like a small grenade, waiting for the inevitable explosion. “This is…”

“You’re here, and you know I can help you,” Bond interrupted, voice a little sharp, but not too unkind. “Q. You’re ill. You’re extremely ill, actually, and I don’t want to watch you fall through the cracks. I’m very aware that this is not regular protocol, but I don’t actually care. Do you?”

Q was quiet for several long, almost painful moments.

“No,” he murmured, with a very slight tinge to the heights of his cheekbones. “No, I don’t. I just… will you get into trouble, for this?”

Bond already knew that if anybody found out, he was probably fucked. “Yes,” he admitted, given that the teenager would see straight through any attempts to lie. “My superiors would not be delighted. You’re more important.”

Q was very, very still.

The silence stretched, and Bond made no move to break it.

“Thank you,” Q said instead, eventually, in a tone of ringing gravity. “Thank you.”


	76. The Fingers Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One other prompt you filled gave me this idea: Both Bond and Q are kidnapped and the kidnappers torture Q in front of James for information with a side order of revenge – anon

They had no idea who Q was, which was both a good thing, and a bad thing. Good, because at least they were not risking the entirety of British security on Q’s ability to withstand torture. Bad, because he was expendable.

Q didn’t make a sound as he was hoisted to his feet, a noose slipped around his throat, a distinct incentive to keep him standing. Q kept his breathing carefully steady, watching Bond, very slightly afraid in an understated type of way.

They wanted mission details. Drop-points, contacts, codes, everything. Bond intended to give them absolutely nothing.

Every hit knocked him off his feet, robbing him of air, choking him intermittently while pain spasmed, white hot, bruises exploding over him, darkening second by second until every inch was mottled, skin splitting, making no noise other than the desperate struggles for air.

They kicked Q’s knees out, and he was choking, breath rasping, bound hands trying to shift upwards, writhing, unable to get his footing back. “If he dies, you lose any chance of my cooperation,” Bond said, with a calm he didn’t feel. “He is your only bargaining chip.”

The man in charge of the entire, ridiculous debacle smiled like a knife, nodded. Q collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heat, gasping, coughing violently and swearing, crying unintentionally.

He wanted to be brave, he really did, but he _hurt_.

Fingers knotted in his hair, dragged him to his knees. Q tried to keep balance, relatively certain ribs had gone at some stage because god _damn it_ , it shouldn’t hurt so much to breathe.

“No need to kill,” the man purred, placing a knife at Q’s throat; Q didn’t move, watched Bond absolutely steady as they uncuffed his wrists, dragging one forward, palm flat to the surface with a mercilessly strong hold around the wrist. Another man moved to hold the rest of Q’s body in place, which was the point at which Q worked it out.

Q fought like a thing possessed, sobbing, _screaming_. “Not my hands,” he burbled, panicked and utterly, truly terrified. “Please, James, _James_ , you can’t let them take, my work, I won’t be able to, please, jesus _fucking_ christ James, please, _please_ don’t, no, no…”

The blade – a hefty carving knife, presumably sharpened, more than capable of sliding through a joint with little difficulty – hovered over Q’s little finger, and Q lost any and all coherency. Everybody has a breaking point, something they cannot bear to lose.

Q would give anything for his work. This would be his breakpoint, if it were him alone. Without his work, Q would start to unravel.

These people have no idea what they’re threatening.

“ _I’m Q_ ,” Q cries, and the bottom falls from Bond’s stomach. He isn’t surprised, but it’s horrific nonetheless, because Q will never forgive him for what he’s about to do. “I’m the MI6 Quartermaster. You can’t do this, please, James, tell them, for fuck’s _sake_ , tell them.”

Bond looks at his lover, his partner, pinned down with a knife over his fingers, his beautifully eloquent fingers, the vessels of his brilliance. Q is communicated in those fingers, the thoughts and ideas and magic of his mind translated onto screens, made tangible.

He shakes his head, very faintly. _I can’t, Q. I’m so sorry_.

A sharp movement, and Q screams.

\---

“Q?”

Q was conscious again, something Bond was both grateful for, and had been dreading. He stared blankly forward, collapsed on his side, entire body thrumming with tension. The stillness was horrific.

His left hand lay out on the floor, tightly wrapped in stained white bandages, seeping red. Q didn’t look at it, could see the blood darkening in his peripheral vision, not quite enough to let him bleed out but fucking _hell_ , he wouldn’t mind much if it did. Everything was very hollow, very unreal, disconnected and desperately painful, heartbeats juddering incoherent pain to his hand to remind him, make him remember heartbeat after heartbeat everything he had lost.

“Please, Q…”

“I will kill you for this,” Q told him, voice blank, hollow. Bond had never heard anything like it; the young man was emptier than many people Bond had met, and he knew empty people. “You could have stopped it.”

Bond shut his eyes for a brief moment. “The information…”

“You’re supposed to love me, look after me, correct?” Q asked rhetorically, still in monotone, body tense and motionless and hand bleeding, bleeding. “I can understand, now, why everybody warned me off you. I thought it was just death. I didn’t actually appreciate that your speciality is _destroying_ those you profess to care about.”

“I…”

“Shut up,” Q told him, without vitriol. “Again: I will kill you for this.”

Abruptly, his body contracted in a keening sob, desperate and pathetic. He could not _be_ , without his fingers, not the person he had constructed. He was Q, Quartermaster of MI6, and he could bring down the world in his pyjamas on a laptop only he couldn’t, because he would never type properly again, not with one hand, he would never be fast enough or dextrous enough, and fuck, they could still take his other fingers and that thought near enough made him scream.

He had no idea how much it would hurt. Really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise.

They were kind enough to take the severed fingers away afterwards. Q wasn’t overly sure what he would have done, had he seen them again.

“I’m sorry, Q,” Bond murmured.

Q let out a sharp, choked laugh. “You fucking should be,” he returned, crying now, looking at the abortive remains of his left hand and trying not to throw up, wanting to scream, not particularly wanting to waste the energy. “You _bastard_.”

Bond could feel everything in him rebel. It was not his fault, and yet, it _was_. One word, and he could have saved Q. The one person he had left, whom he had sworn to protect, and he had failed.

“I thought I mattered to you,” Q breathed, eyes shutting a little, body curling tighter into itself.

Bond buried his head in his hands, and closed his eyes.

\---

MI6 arrived, of course. Medical teams went slightly pale, and Q-branch gasped over the earpieces, and M closed his eyes in his office and pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered what in the hell they could do with a Quartermaster devoid of all the fingers on his left hand.

Q was breathtakingly unresponsive, and Bond refused to be separated. It was curious; neither spoke to the other, but Bond insisted on staying, despite Q declining to so much as _glance_ at him.

When Q was put under sedation, Bond was told to report to M. Naturally, Bond did so; he menaced Medical into keeping him updated, striding towards the office while Q lay, fragile, under heaps of thin blankets.

“What happened,” M asked, tone utterly merciless.

Bond closed his eyes, breathing out echoes of Q’s screams, the way he cried, the mute monotony of pain. Bond opened his eyes again, focusing on his superior, and explained everything.

-

M was surprisingly good about it. In his words: they needed Q’s mind, not his fingers. He would never be a hacker again, nor a programmer, but his technical expertise and intelligence could still be applied. Q-branch rallied wonderfully; when Q was wheeled into branch – his right hip had suffered a hairline fracture early on, would take a while to heal – R presented Q with a prototype dictator, giving him a way to continue coding on some level.

Q pretended to cope, and was lying.

Bond watched Q try and fail to deal with it. Q spent days with his hand resting in his lap, unused, while researching cybernetics, researching in meticulous detail whether there would ever be any way of reclaiming his lost fingers, his lost world. Q had formed his identity around being the best hacker, programmer, technician – and he had nothing left.

For days, for a week, Q did not sleep. He spent his time hiding in Q-branch and refusing to listen to reason, blueprints scattered over his desk and floor and lap and walls, Q curling his body in a knot around his injured hand and sheltering his hate as best he could.

“Q, you need sleep.”

Q didn’t turn around. He hadn’t spoken, except for work-related statements, since losing his fingers. Bond was met, usually, with outright hostility.

It had stopped being surprising that Q wordlessly locked down his office, the mechanised door literally slamming him in the face, a kaleidoscope of locks clicking one after the next after the next.

_I’m sorry_ , Bond thought, as he walked away.

\---

Q’s concentration had taken on a truly frantic strain. He was barely functioning as Quartermaster, or as a human being in general; he just spent every waking moment on the prosthesis he’d tracked down.

Honestly, Q’s salary didn’t quite cover it. Bond knew that, and knew that Q would be trying to find the best. When Q found his bank account with a considerable amount more money than he had expected, he didn’t say a word, but knew. Of course he knew.

He needed the money, and Bond had given it easily. Q used it.

Day after day, it became more obvious that Q was not doing his job properly. R was taking the strain of Q-branch, while Q locked himself up in the farthest reaches of MI6, and completely failed to notice that everything was going to hell around him.

Bond was a damn good agent. Q, for all his virtues, was suffering from chronic tunnel vision; Bond broke into his office, closed the door, looked over the man he loved and had failed to protect.

“Out,” Q asked, voice slightly raspy. He looked like hell, quite frankly; Bond could see etched shadows of exhaustion running through his skin, languid blinks as he tried to focus, the way his hands shook very faintly. “007…”

It still hurt, but Bond could not allow himself to focus on that just yet. “You will be fired, if you carry on like this,” he told Q flatly. “M found a way to make sure you could stay on as Quartermaster, and you’re wasting it. Maybe you’ll be able to find a way to get a prosthetic to a good enough standard to type with, but it’s bloody unlikely. If you keep going like this, you’ll lose everything, and you can’t blame it on me this time.”

Q’s eyes snapped up to him, lividly, tangibly angry.

“You blame me,” Bond continued quietly. “I understand. I could have stopped it, and elected to save other people’s lives instead. I do not regret my decision. I regret losing you, and I miss you. This? This is your decision.”

“You…”

Bond disappeared, before Q could voice an objection, left alone in a chaos of papers to sit and sit and cradle his hand and _wonder_.


	77. The Snarky Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Q are stuck in Q’s office for to contamination risk. Both are snarky and have infinite sass. Fluff, smut wherever you wanna take it lol – anon

“So, you decided to test an aerosol dispersion narcotic _on your own department_?” Bond asked, his voice dark, and very faintly amused.

Q groaned. He and Bond had locked themselves in Q’s study, when it became very evident that the narcotic was a _lot_ more potent than initial studies had suggested, and also, just wouldn’t stop spreading. Q-branch were scattered like corpses across the branch. Thankfully, there were no pressing missions.

“I did _not_ ,” Q said crossly, rolling his eyes. “It _split_. I wasn’t going to _test it_ on my branch.”

“Liar.”

“Fuck off.”

Q spun slightly in his chair, watching the CCTV. The narcotic would dissipate, yes, for not for a while yet; he’d had to lock down Q-branch, and indeed his own office. In practise, he was trapped in a confined space with James bloody Bond for potentially several hours.

“Don’t touch,” Q said sharply, as Bond’s questioning hands reached towards something. Bond obediently dropped his hand, half-smirking. “Of all bloody people, it had to be you.”

“Now, now. I could get offended,” Bond commented drily. “It could have been 006.”

“Trevelyan is banned from my office,” Q said primly, expression indicating that he truly wasn’t joking. Bond let out a short, barking laugh, not overwhelmingly surprised. Q raised an eyebrow. “After this debacle, you may be following him.”

“You wound me, Quartermaster.”

“Hmm,” Q said disparagingly. Abruptly, he whacked the side of his computer monitor. “Piece of _crap_.”

“Blasphemy.”

“Fuck _off_ , Bond,” Q snapped at him. “Fuck it. I closed off Q-branch under contamination protocols, and it’s taken my computer with it. That’s just… that’s just _unfair_.”

“So you can’t even work, while trapped in here for the next few hours?” Bond asked, eyebrow raised. Q took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose, lips slightly pursed.

He looked up at Bond, expression cold. “No. Apparently not.”

“You’ll have to pay attention to me, then,” Bond said with an arrogant, insinuating smirk; Q gave a faint wail. “Methinks the Quartermaster doth protest too much.”

“Do not abortively quote Shakespeare in my presence,” Q said wearily, sighing a little. “Alright, then. Get settled, and touch nothing. If you break anything, I will be a _long_ way from delighted.”

Bond smirked, and took a seat. This was going to be _fun_.

\---

 

After two _hours_ of James Bond, Q was going quite categorically insane. He was a living _nightmare_.

“Bond, put that down _right now_ , or I swear I’ll cut your hands off,” Q snapped at him, jaw tight with fury. Bond was insistently poking _everything_ , handling all of Q’s projects, moving them to different places and categorically ruining most of Q’s filing systems.

Bond raised an eyebrow, placing the inch-square piece of technology back on the shelf, sitting back with a bored sigh. “So. Why’d Alec get banned?” Bond asked casually.

“Looking for tips?” Q parried drily. Bond shrugged slightly, a vague smirk creeping over his face. Q rolled his eyes. “He was being facetious, and also _refused to stop fiddling_.”

Obediently, Bond let go of the Newton’s Cradle, letting the think clink rhythmically. Q’s expression was absolutely lethal. “Facetious in what respect?” Bond asked lightly.

Q blinked once, twice. “Refused to leave points well enough alone,” he said primly, turning back to the underside of his desktop; Bond was failing to hold his attention, thus Q was busy stripping down his computer in an attempt to rehook into MI6 servers.

“Now you see, that isn’t what I heard,” Bond purred, leaning in a little.

Q’s entire body stiffened. “And what, _precisely_ , did you hear?” he asked in a tense, strung tone. He could imagine, of course he could imagine, but if Trevelyan had said a goddamn word, Q would come after him.

Bond was smirking deliciously. “That you, dear Quartermaster,” he began, with a rather predatory glance. “May have reacted badly to light mockery concerning your current romantic interests.”

To his credit, Q didn’t let himself blush. “Light mockery, he called it?” Q noted with some interest. “My god, that man can lie.”

Undeterred, Bond moved closer. “Was he lying on every front?” Bond purred, pressing his body practically _against_ Q.

“You’re in my circle of fear,” Q warned, needle-tip pliers in hand. “Move back, or I shan’t be help responsible.”

Q was pretty small. Bond was not. Really, Bond didn’t see any cause to be tremendously worried. In fact, he actually deigned to place a hand on Q’s arm, running along the bicep with a quiet, satisfied hum.

Needle-tip pliers are actually quite painful, when stabbed into one’s arm.

\---

Bond was still nursing his upper arm a half-hour later, when both parties had calmed down a little. Q hadn’t actually let go of said pliers – which now had a sad, small red stain on the tip – and watched Bond with a mixed expression of horror and fear.

“What, the  _hell_ ,” he began, his first attempt at broaching the subject since stabbing his co-worker, “did you mean by that?”

Bond didn’t answer, still probing at the minute injury. “I would have thought that was obvious,” he replied, almost whining, looking surprisingly miffed at his injury. “And you  _stabbed me_  for it?”

Q sniffed. “I told you, I would not be held responsible,” he said curtly, still busy with the interior workings of his computer. For everybody’s sakes, and Bond’s welfare, it was best that he got them  _out_  of a highly confined space. “Now: why?”

“Again: isn’t it obvious?” Bond asked, pointedly refusing to explain further, and apparently doing his level best to drive Q to distraction.

Q’s eyes flicked back to his hand, to the pliers. “You… you like me,” he asked slowly, almost growling with disbelief and annoyance. “You heard everything Alec had to say, and decided, what? That you wanted to pursue something?”

Bond shrugged. “Just about,” he grinned. “You like me. I’m quite fond of you, as it happens, and I think we could work quite well in an almost-romantic context. Provided, of course, no further plier attacks.”

For a moment, Q was quiet. “I…” he said slowly; Bond tried to move closer. “Ah ah, stay back, I’m still thinking and I’m jumpy, and have pliers…”

“… Point taken…”

“… and I’m worried that I think this is a  _good idea_ ,” he moaned, collapsing forward onto the desk, head on his arms. “Bond, you’re really nice to look at, but you fuck _everything_  with a pulse and you wouldn’t know monogamy if it came and bit you on the arse…”

Bond took his life in his hands, pulled Q forward, and kissed him.


	78. The Tanner/006 fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think Tanner deserves some attention and love. Can you please write something where Tanner starts getting attention from one of the male double o’s (not 007 though cause he’s q’s lol) please and thank you. – blacknwhitecow

Alec Trevelyan, 006, was an absolute HR nightmare, second only to the infamous chaos of James Bond, 007. Tanner found them both necessarily evils, but not exactly the kind of people he’d enjoy spending prolonged periods of time with.

Of course, this nestled thought was essentially a trigger for unwarranted, and wholly undesirable, attention.

The double-ohs were really not renowned for their subtlety. Tanner noted Alec’s interest long before he started outright ‘flirting’; how in the hell they lasted in the field, where lies and subtlety were a must, was beyond him.

Bond was exactly the same; his interest in the Quartermaster had been visible from several continents away. Tanner was frankly alarmed to find he was subject to the same kind of pseudo-courtship, as Trevalyan leaned on the doorway of his office.

“How can I help?” he asked, blinking at the agent.

Trevelyan flashed a cheesy, ridiculous smile at him. Tanner sighed elaborately; Trevelyan would now linger around for a while, making worrying comments, annoying him in every way known to man.

“Let me take you to dinner?” 006 insisted, leaning on Tanner’s desk.

Tanner just looked at him, blinked. Sighed again. “Why?” he asked wearily, abandoning his paperwork to fix the agent with an impassive stare.

Alec seemed a long way from deterred. “I’d like to get to know you better,” he said, every line feeling recycled from a romantic film of some disgusting description. “Come on, Tanner. What harm could it do?”

“As MI6 Chief of Staff, it would be highly inappropriate,” Tanner pointed out mildly, smiling at Trevelyan pleasantly. “Is that all?”

Trevelyan purred slightly as he leant in. “Tanner…”

“If I have to use defensive tactics, I’m sure it will be considered self-defence,” Tanner commented, his tone still deliberately _pleasant_ , non-confrontational. Alec raised an eyebrow, pouting in mock offence.

Trevelyan’s hand covered Tanner’s own. Official invasion of personal space, it seemed. “Off,” Tanner said, tone a little less kind. “ _Now_ , if you would.”

“And if I wouldn’t?” Alec asked obstreperously.

Tanner restrained the urge to commit bodily harm, given that he had practically no training, and Trevelyan was a _very_ high-level martial artist. “I’m assuming that you will not relent until I agree?” he asked, faintly weary.

Alec nodded. “Nothing further, if you don’t want. Just dinner,” he said, before flashing another, terribly clichéd smile.

“Fine,” Tanner conceded, pulling his hand away from the other agent’s. “Dinner. I will pick you up at eight from outside HQ, yes?”

Trevelyan looked mildly taken aback, as Tanner took control. Tanner could have laughed; he was not the type to be controlled by an over-arrogant double-oh agent. “Eight,” Alec agreed with abrupt quiet.

Tanner paused for a moment, smiling to himself. He returned to his paperwork without a further thought.

\---

 

Tanner turned up in a rather nice soft-top BMW, which Alec nodded appreciatively at before sliding into the passenger seat. “I’m never usually a passenger,” he said lightly, glancing over Tanner.

“It’s amazing what one can get used to,” Tanner returned mildly, driving them towards a Thai restaurant he was rather fond of. 006 – thankfully – didn’t voice a complaint; he just continued to watch Tanner with unerring interest, distinct approval.

The perks of being MI6 Chief of Staff meant very good tables. Tanner was a survivor; he had seen more people die than anybody else in MI6 put together, and managed them all. Each fatality, each injury, was reported to him. He knew absolutely everything.

Including that Alec was very allergic to nuts, impressively enough. Tanner was still in control – something Alec found absurdly arousing – as he ordered a handful of dishes, turning to face 006 with a placid expression.

“You’re rather used to being in charge, aren’t you?” Alec purred.

Tanner’s expression didn’t change. “It tends to help, when in a position of seniority in MI6,” he returned calmly, taking a long sip from the glass of water he’d poured. Alec noted with interest that he had made no move towards ordering alcohol. “And you are used to being commanded, I should note.”

That comment should have stung more. Alec was a double-oh agent; they tended to take great joy in being unmanageable bastards. As it was, Alec couldn’t really deny that Tanner was entirely correct. “Tends to help,” he echoed, his smile a little gentler.

It was a nice evening. Tanner was calm and guarded and precise, but very honest when asked the right questions. Alec found himself playing games, trying to tease out information, realising halfway that Tanner was doing the precise same – only he already knew the answers.

Alec paid – because he had some damn pride, and Tanner seemed to be in control of absolutely everything else – letting the Chief of Staff drive him home. It was all a little surreal.

Tanner pulled up outside the door without needing to ask directions, and glanced over Alec. “This is the point where you kiss me goodbye,” Alec said teasingly, smiling slightly.

He was so shocked he nearly pulled away on instinct, as Tanner tugged him forward for a soft, intimate kiss.

They broke apart, Tanner still frustratingly calm, Alec beginning to feel a little spaced. “Will that do?” he asked politely, while Alec blinked.

“Yes,” Alec replied, without any hyperbole, and leaned forward again.

 

\---

“Something’s wrong with Alec,” Bond said simply, propping himself against Q’s desk with an expression of absolute perturbation.

Q didn’t look up, somewhat distracted by new intel reports from Moscow. “Oh?” he asked absentmindedly. “Stranger than usual, I’m assuming?”

Bond nodded, thinking aloud. “I’d almost say he’s in love,” he said, with a look of honest distaste. Alec really, truly, was not the type to be in love. “It’s weird. He won’t tell me who he’s been seeing, but clearly they’re important. He’s practically  _mooning_.”

It had to be said: no computer would ever be quite as captivating as gossip, especially when concerning 006. Alec was the only person more frightened of commitment than Bond in the Western world; his being in any sense faithful to a single human being for any prolonged stretch was interesting. “You’re certain?” Q asked, with all seriousness.

Bond nodded. “We need to investigate further.”

“On it,” Q nodded, and started typing with renewed vigour.

-

“Tanner’s being weird.”

Bond didn’t look at him; he was busy doing pull-ups on the reinforced bar they had installed on the ceiling of their flat. Q waited until he’d finished the set, letting Bond drop gracefully, albeit with a rather exaggerated pant. “Go on?” he asked.

“You’ll think me very odd for saying this,” Q replied, hand over the back of his neck, thinking. “But he’s acting  _very_  like Alec has been. Smitten. Generally smiling too much and being friendly. It’s alarming.”

“… they’ve been spending a  _lot_  more time together…”

“… but…”

They both stood, not really daring to broach the subject.

Bond managed it first. “Do you think…?”

“I usually try not to, on matters like this,” Q returned honestly. “I… I’ll look. They’ll have left a trail, if… I mean,  _Trevelyan_ and _Tanner_?!”

Bond turned his palms skywards, as though appealing for help. “I’m getting to the stage where little would surprise me,” he said, slightly wearily, and moved to watch over Q’s shoulder as he started to track through both men’s movements.

\---

Q hadn’t stopped typing in about four hours; Bond was waiting next to him, looking over his shoulder as his partner brought up everything he could humanly find in relation to their Chief of Staff, and one Alec Trevelyan.

“Definitely,” Q murmured. “Good god.”

“Alec’s  _committed to somebody_?” Bond managed, looking utterly horrified. “But he’s… he’s a  _double-oh_  agent…”

Q shot Bond a deeply acerbic look. “I’m rather hoping that being a double-oh agent is not always shorthand for infidelity,” he told Bond primly.  “Anyway. We should probably have a word, I think.”

“I’ll take Alec, you take Tanner.”

“On it.”

-

“So,” Q said, with a faint smile. “How are you, these days? I haven’t spoken to you in far too long. Anything new in your life?”

“You found out about my relationship with Alec, didn’t you?”

Q blushed practically down to his toes, given his inability to lie. “I…”

Tanner raised an eyebrow. “Keep it to yourself. And for god’s sake, call Bond off; Alec may well kill him, otherwise.”

-

“You’re dating Tanner.”

Alec hissed out a breath, rolling his eyes at Bond. “You absolute fuck,” he growled. “How the  _fuck_  did you find that out?!”

Bond grinned. “You dog.”

Alec punched him, just as Bond’s phone rang.


	79. Other Guardian fills

Q broke the first rule of guardianship: never harm another. It was perfectly manageable to simply protect one’s mark, without ever hurting anybody else.

Unless your mark was James bloody Bond, who spent his _life_ getting into trouble with other people, especially ones who wanted to kill him. Thus Bond killed them. Or, in this case, Q killed them first.

Q was in the field, with Bond. Never a good plan to start off with. When everything descended to gun slinging and general nastiness, Q wound up shooting three people. Once he confirmed that Bond was safe, he promptly passed out, dimly registering that his wings had appeared.

_Fuck_.

Q woke up, in hospital. “So. You have wings,” intoned a voice from behind him, a voice who had realised that Q was awake and had started talking _instantly_ , just out of sadism. Q gave a harsh groan, hand falling to one side, onto feathers.

Shit. He really _did_ have wings.

“I’m your guardian angel,” Q sighed, sitting up; his head ached horribly. He knew what had happened. He was on his own now, not to mention that immortality was now out of the window. “Hmm. How frustrating. I did see this coming, I must admit. Of all marks, I get landed with a _double-oh_ agent.”

Bond blinked. “What?” he asked simply, clearly barely clinging onto his sanity.

“Your guardian angel. Literally, an angel sent to look after you – in return for your safety throughout your life, I get immortality rather than the faded obscurity human beings topple into,” he explained wearily. “But, I killed somebody, and that’s that. I’m now a _fallen_ angel. You are however, blissfully, not dead.”

“Why the wings?” Bond asked, zeroing in on the only thing he could find that was still clear, or was tangible in any sense. The guardian angel thing could wait a moment. For now, he needed to know _why_ his Quartermaster seemed to suddenly have wings, especially given that he was now a _fallen_ angel.

Q’s fingers played in them absentmindedly. “Hmm, yes. Just a little thing. They’re retractable, supposedly,” he said, thinking about it at the same time, wondering how in the hell it worked.

Through thought, apparently. They vanished.

Bond sighed wearily. “Q. You’re… so. Hold on, you’ve _lost immortality_?!”

Q nodded. “I’m not as upset as you’d think,” he said calmly. “Immortality is long, and the company gets stale. I now get to stay as Quartermaster indefinitely, have a life, a genuine life of my own. I live, I die, like all the humans I’ve spent an indeterminate amount of time watching.”

Bond reached out, a hand on Q’s. “You’re mortal?” he confirmed, voice soft. Q glanced up and down, nodded slightly. “My turn to take care of you, then,” he said to himself, relaxing back in his chair happily, closing his eyes while Q watched, rendered speechless.

\---

 

Bond walked into their flat to find Q, almost in tears, face scrunched in concentration, body hunched into itself with wings at full extension. “Are you alright?” Bond asked, tone light, a little concerned.

Q turned to him with a devastated expression, like a lost child. “I can’t get the wings to retract,” he said with panic. “I didn’t… I was trying to work out how to use them, and they aren’t working, and I don’t know what that means.”

Ah. Bond came over, settled himself down on the coffee table, opposite Q. They were not dating, not quite. They lived together, though. Q was Bond’s guardian angel, and was – unfortunately – now very mortal. Before, there had been a level of flippancy over his life; angels could not be killed through human means.

Protecting Bond had consequences. In this case, he lost his immortality. Bond had subsequently become rather hysterical in his need to make sure Q came to no harm, with a body he was unaccustomed to.

“Relax,” Bond suggested, closing Q’s hands in his own. “Panic, and your body will release adrenaline, thinking you’re in a fight – the wings will never go if you’re in this state.”

Surprisingly logical thinking, Q mused, as he took a breath, let his shoulders drop. “Stomach hurts too,” he muttered petulantly; Bond couldn’t resist a slight smirk.

“Did you eat?” he suggested; Q’s eyes predictably widened. He always forgot. Food had been a pastime while immortal. Now a necessity, Q completely forgot in a way he simply couldn’t afford to any more. “Stay there, keep breathing, I’ll grab something.”

“I can…”

“Did you not notice the six foot wings? You won’t get through the door,” Bond laughed, heading to the kitchen while his petulant fallen angel glared at nothing in particular. “It’s alright, Q. I can take charge of this.”

Q thought for a moment, keeping his breathing regular, letting the various chemicals in his body dissipate. To his mild annoyance, Bond was absolutely right; the moment he was calm, he merely needed a fleeting suggestion, and his wings retracted.

“Told you so,” Bond called, as the flat started to smell of cheese and bread, tantalisingly.

Q glanced around, grinning, the pain in his stomach more acute as he breathed in the smell; he made inadvertently grabby hands towards the plate when Bond arrived, biting into the cheese on toast with tangible satisfaction. “’ank you,” he managed through a mouthful.

Bond laughed, shook his head a little. Ridiculous boy.


	80. The Kindergarten fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any chance you could do a children au? I’m thinking primary/elementary where James doesn’t have many friends because he gets into a lot fights? Q’s a little younger so they’re not in the same class, maybe kindergarten? When he makes friends with Q he’s awful at sharing and asks if he can take Q home with him? Just looking for some cute, sappy adorableness with a dash of possessive James. – runemarks

The boy watched the bigger boy curiously, busy stacking bricks, dividing bricks into piles, counting them all up because Caroline stole bricks and Q hated when his bricks went missing because they were _his bricks_.

The bigger boy didn’t look like he wanted to steal any of Q’s bricks, which was good. He was just watching. “What’s your name?” he asked, really big, really tall. Q’s eyes widened.

“Q,” he said back, green eyes all glinty, holding his bricks close. “You?”

“James,” the boy said, puffing up like a balloon. Q giggled at the sight. “Do you want to be friends?”

Q cocked his head to one side curiously. Bigger boys never wanted to be friends with the little ones. “Why?” he asked, voice light.

James blinked. “Cos,” he shrugged, and didn’t say anything else.

They looked at each for a minute or two, Q thinking. He didn’t like the other people at his age. They were loud and noisy and horrid, and didn’t like him either. James seemed nice. Friends were nice.

“Kay,” he said simply, and smiled a bit. James blew up again, and Q giggled, handing over a brick as a sign of trust.

-

At the end of the day, everybody waited around for their parents. James was absolutely attached to Q, who watched the bigger boy like he was something new and exciting, somebody fun.

“This is Q and I’m keeping him,” James said to the woman who came closer, tugging Q forward by the wrist. Q just looked up at the woman, blinking hugely, not moving away from James.

The woman sighed. “James, let him go. He has a family.”

“No,” James contradicted flatly, as Q saw his mummy. He looked between James, and his mummy, trying to work out who would be crosser if he stayed with the other. James’s mummy seemed to be making the decision for him, pulling James away. “No, _Q_.”

Q smiled, waved a bit. There was always tomorrow.

James didn’t seem to agree, but then, he was funny. Q liked him, even if he was funny.

“Bye,” he said brightly, as James was pulled to his car, the ruffled child deposited in the backseat, watching his new friend toddle home with his mummy.

\---

It began to be a little tricky.

James kept attaching himself to Q, and Q to him. Q would look up, all innocent and childish and happy to see his friend, and Bond would puff up again like a puffer fish (Q liked puffer fishes, they were funny) and they would play in all the breaks and James would give Q his biscuit and Q would share his milk and everybody left them alone because James was Really Big and Q was clever and once secretly put chewing gum in Louise’s hair because she pushed lots of people over deliberately and sometimes hurt them.

Her hair had looked funny for ages.

Q wasn’t _proud_ of himself, but nobody caught him, and she had started it anyway, and she stopped pushing people afterwards so that was good.

James told him he shouldn’t be mean again, so he wasn’t. Q told James he had to stop knocking things over and breaking his things, and James agreed and laughed and seemed to ignore him, so Q stole his pen and made it leak all over his hand when he was in class later.

Q was a bit sad, because James got cross, but forgave him anyway. James called him a Terrible Influence, and Q didn’t really know what it meant, but James told him that he had heard it from his mummy who was very clever, so Q stayed a Bad Influence, and James broke things.

James took him to his house for tea one day. Their mummies had realised that the two were inseparable. Teachers said it was bad, that they needed to find friends in their peers, but James had thrown a tantrum and Q had just cried, so now they were allowed to have tea at each other’s houses and James had _amazing_ Lego.

Q wasn’t allowed Lego at home. He was too little. He only ate one of the little gem thingys, and they aren’t important really anyway, they only make it look prettier so that was okay.

James liked to show off how fast he could build it, how high he could make his towers. He liked Q when he stared at James with huge eyes and looked really amazed, so James continued to do more and more daring things, and Q humoured him at the age of four and James didn’t notice.

“I’m keeping you,” he told Q firmly, at least once a day, whenever they saw each other.

Q looked over him, forehead wrinkly with confusion. “I know,” he replied, at least once a day, and smiled happily. “Milk?”


	81. The Widowed!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q’s a widowed omega that killed his alpha, he was trying to protect their unborn child from it’s father’s abuse. While he saves his own life, he loses the child. Years later, Q thinks he’s safe from interest at MI6 because of his history and he’s mostly right. Insecure Alphas are wary of him but seasoned field agents and 00s think he’s the perfect mate who isn’t afraid to defend himself from Alpha attackers. 007 is one such interested party and takes his time wooing Q. – anon

The stories around Q’s past were, essentially, legend. While nobody knew his name, and nobody dared ask, his status as an Omega had led to inevitable questions, rumours, and – ultimately – the truth.

Q refused to trust Alphas on principle, and really, nobody could blame him for that. The simple fact of his having killed an Alpha – a very difficult feat – was enough to render him safe from most interest.

Bond liked the young man. He had been through so much. Too much, for an Omega like him. He had deserved better. Widowed by twenty-four, mistreated by his Alpha to such an extent that he’d found no way out beyond murder. It was highly fortunate that he found a sympathetic jury; Omegas were not always forgiven for murder, even in the case of self-defence.

Time trickled by, and Q began to notice. Bond hung around him a little more than was normal, or expected. He sought out Q-branch, and Q himself, speaking to the young Omega about anything and everything.

Only strong Alphas ever showed an interest, these days. Q figured it was probably a good thing, but honestly, he was still wary of Alpha who were physically overwhelming. His previous Alpha had been larger than him, easily able to subdue him, and had a merciless punch when angry.

Q’s hand moved subconsciously to his stomach. He had been six months gone at the point of his miscarriage, and his Alpha was to blame. The thing he had tried to protect had been lost, Q himself barely surviving, his dead Alpha lying next to him while he bled sluggishly, waiting for an ambulance, sobbing at the strange, slicing pain he could feel in his belly.

He could not go through that again. He wanted – _needed_ – an Alpha, who would take care of him, love him. At present, he simply didn’t trust any Alphas enough to even consider it.

Bond became a constant, inexorable presence. He didn’t ask for anything. He just lingered, asked gentle questions, brought tea once in a while, reminded the young man that sleep was a concept not restricted to lesser beings.

Q began to grow used to him, even looking forward to him being around. He noticed, but didn’t comment, on how he quietly and insistently pushed all other Alphas a long way away from Q. Before long, the other agents who had been expressing curious interest fell back, leaving just Bond.

“You’re interested in me, aren’t you?” Q asked lightly, while Bond drank an expression, Q’s tea steaming in front of him. “This is your idea of courtship.”

Bond raised an eyebrow slightly. “Problem?”

Q returned his attention to the computer, both parties refusing to acknowledge Q’s quiet, understated glances in Bond’s direction. “No,” he murmured, smiling despite himself. “No. It’s alright.”

\---

 

Q yawned, exhaustion dribbling through his body, practically asleep at his desk; he had been working for several days straight, a number of particularly tricky missions keeping him from home, from food or rest.

Bond watched from a distance as Q finished off the pending missions, typing up final reports, barely able to stifle his yawns. When the young man toppled forward a bit, eyes almost shut, he gently lifted Q from the keyboard. “You need to go home,” he told Q gently, Q nodding sleepily against his chest.

He was still compus mentis enough to walk, but not quite in a straight line; Bond guided him to his car, Q not even asking questions, just settling in Bond’s passenger seat and letting the agent drive.

When they got to Q’s apartment, Q didn’t move from the passenger seat. It took Bond a moment to realise that he was completely asleep, in a way that spoke of several days of sleep deprivation, completely unable to force himself into consciousness again. Bond smiled, scooping Q into his arms, opening the flat one-handed while Q dozed in his arms, nuzzling into Bond’s neck.

Bond settled him in the bed, the Omega making a plaintive, sad noise when Bond pulled away. To Bond’s immense interest, he smiled in his doze when Bond moved closer, closed eyes, tugging the Alpha closer and making little, contented noises as Bond’s body wrapped around him, finally toppling into full unconsciousness as Bond stroked his hair.

-

Q woke up, feeling happier than he could recall feeling for a long time. Warm, settled, safe. It took a few minutes to even work out what had happened, where he was, who on earth he seemed to have limpeted himself to.

He backed off faster than he knew possible, nearly toppling off the bed.

Bond, meanwhile, went from sleeping like the dead to screamingly awake in the space of two and a half seconds, watching Q carefully. “Are you alright?” he asked urgently, as Q stared at him.

Q was thinking very little of coherency beyond _there is another Alpha in my bed_. Thankfully, Bond worked that much out; he slipped back, sliding out from under the covers, standing by the bed, fully-clothed.

“What happened?” Q asked, eyes wide.

Bond lifted his hands slightly in a universal surrender. “Nothing. You were exhausted, you seemed more settled with me there,” he explained, with absolute honesty. Q could make of that what he would.

“Okay,” Q replied softly, still looking immensely suspicious. “M’sorry, it just… confused me. I haven’t… sorry, could you possibly give me a minute?”

It seemed fair. Bond nodded, left the bedroom quickly, leaving Q curled up under the covers, trying to realign everything he knew.

\---

Q was terrified of having another child, not when he had come so close to having one before; Bond was kind, he loved Q in a way his previous Alpha never had. Bond would never hurt him.

Thus, after a while, Q had agreed to try again. Having a child was less frightening, with somebody like Bond involved; he would guard, would take care of Q and the child forever.

True, it was far from easy. As Q’s stomach began to swell, he battled against the instinctive fear that came with Bond ever being angry, or upset. He had another life in him, somebody to care for above himself.

Only last time, he had lost that child regardless. That remembrance still hurt, even after all the time that had passed.

Q was nine months, expecting any day. Naturally, both he and Bond were off work – pregnant Omegas were given absurd government maternity leave – and Q was rather enjoying languishing with his Alpha. Bond found Q’s pheromones particularly gorgeous while pregnant, had been taking great pleasure in everything from sex, to simply nuzzling against Q’s shoulder, breathing him in.

The abrupt spear of pain made Q actively scream, flashed back, remembering the wrenching agony that came with his last miscarriage. “No, no _no,_ ” he gasped, hands covering his stomach, glancing at Bond with pure panic. “James, I…”

Bond hushed him, hand tucking around Q’s head. “Q, calm down,” he said, in that incontrovertible tone Q always trusted, on simple instinct. Q nodded a little, eyes too wide. “Come on. Let’s get you to hospital, hmm? You’re in labour. Nothing’s wrong.”

Q nodded a little, keeping a hand protectively over his belly regardless as Bond led him out to their car. The spasms were regular, mind-blowingly painful, Q breathing as best he could. Definitely labour, it hadn’t felt anything like this last time.

Labour was something Q really, truly didn’t want to remember or repeat. Bond was far from keen, either. It hurt like hell, and Bond – as Q’s Alpha – spent a decent proportion of his time terrorising the medical staff into finding more painkillers, while Q swore a blue streak in a number of very creative languages.

The soft cry cracked through the room like electricity. “Oh my god,” Q managed, panting, exhausted on a level he truly hadn’t considered possible before this moment.

Bond shifted to the bottom of the bed, accepting the bundle of blankets, glancing up at his lover.

Q smiled faintly, arm reaching out to them both, endorphins making his skin _sing_ as he ran slim fingers over the impossibly soft, damp skin of his child.


	82. The Fem!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello I have another prompt for you Jen, if you choose to accept it. Can you do a 00Q fic where Q is a girl? Like Q is one of the few ever to withstand 007’s charms? Please and Thank you :) – minicheesecakes

Q was elegantly, supremely beautiful. Not in a classical sense; she had a boyish androgyny that was curiously attractive, in a way Bond wasn’t accustomed to but liked nonetheless.

She was also, irritatingly, completely impervious to any and all of Bond’s usually formidable seduction tactics.

“Yes?” Q queried, lips twitched into a light smile as she spotted Bond in the doorway. Bond took several confident steps forward, leaning against her desk. She adjusted her glasses slightly, glancing over him. “Ah. _This_ conversation.”

“This conversation?” Bond echoed, admittedly a little taken-aback. Q rolled her barely made-up eyes, just a touch of mascara, highlighting the intense colour of the green beneath.

She sighed. “I have no interest in fucking you. Is that sufficient to curtail this conversation _before_ it becomes awkward and/or unpleasant?” she asked rhetorically, settling back in her chair, arms crossing over her rather lovely breasts; they were often obscured by questionable cardigans, but the blouses gave some suggestion of definition beneath.

Bond blinked. “I…”

“I know,” she interjected, and nodded to the door. “Out, Bond. I have work to be getting on with.”

“You’re very beautiful when you’re angry.”

“ _Out_.”

-

Bond realised that outright flirtation, and asking, would get him nowhere at all. Instead, he simply refused to leave. He became something of a permanent fixture in Q-branch, watching Q as she worked, lithe body darting around Q-branch with such gorgeous speed, dexterity.

She was always intelligently dressed; skirts, high-heels, were clearly deemed pointless. On her late nights, on stressful days, she didn’t care enormously about her appearance – and quite honestly, Bond found her all the more attractive for it. She didn’t pretend, in a way most women seemed to.

He brought her tea, coffee. Learned the routines of the consumption of afore-mentioned beverages, and could be depended on to turn up with the right drink and the right time and – as matters developed – sandwiches, a muffin, chopped vegetables in a Tupperware that made Q laugh out loud when she saw.

“Stupid man,” she tutted, reluctantly conceding that Bond seemed to know her quite well. “You have to stop doing this.“It’s my pleasure,” Bond said, with a slight dip of his head, respectful; Q struck him as the type who appreciated gentlemanly gestures, and Bond was rarely wrong. Q smiled slightly, hands wrapping around the chamomile tea with an almost begrudging smile.

“You’re a nightmare, you know that?” she told him directly, taking a sip of the tea.

Bond took a half-step closer. Q watched with a slightly raised eyebrow as he leaned forward, pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. “So I’ve told,” he said softly, and left her alone, Q watching him with a sinking sensation of _bugger_.

_\---_

Bond hadn’t expected to be taking Q on a mission with him, but wasn’t overly upset about it; she was an absolute pleasure to have on his arm, as they went through into a business dinner, mingling with infinite numbers of people.

Women were useful to have on side in espionage, but – like it or not – men tended to be the main players in criminal dealings. Bond was able to associate himself with the partners and playthings.

Q, however, was doing a truly sterling job of integrating himself into the rings of the male leaders. She pressed close, touches lingering perfectly, deft strokes and intimate little whisperings that made Bond’s pulse catch from a distance.

She was unlike any other woman there. Most were appallingly _obvious_ , in their low-cut dresses and perfectly manicured faces. Q, conversely, was a shadow away from her usual self; practical and intelligent and gloriously alive; she’d conceded the heels at Bond’s request, but had utterly refused to touch ostentatious jewellery or such other rubbish.

Bond moved confidently closer, allowing Q to dictate the impending actions; she looked up, smiled, moved to Bond’s side and insinuated herself against him in a way that screamed dominance, somehow, Bond didn’t understand how but _damn it_ , he liked it.

“Gentlemen, if I could introduce James,” she said, with an arrogant sideways smile, winking at a man opposite in the circle, feigning innocence as Bond squeezed her waist a little too tightly.

God, but her body was incredible, when finally released from the cardigans and unflattering trousers. If she had looked gorgeous before, she looked _impossible_ now.

“A word,” Bond murmured in her ear; she gave a little, deliberately manufactured giggle, and nodded.

Every eye was on them as they left, and rightly so. They had essentially confirmed their presence in the next meeting, almost entirely through Q’s actions.

Bond purred, licked over the shell of Q’s ear, making her raise an eyebrow. “You’re gorgeous,” he told her flatly, and Q smiled happily.

“I know,” she replied easily, and conceded defeat with a deliberate kiss to Bond’s slack lips.


	83. The Cyborg!Bond fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, there! I was wondering if you might be able to fill a prompt for me. Q is a technopath—able to communicate with/control machines with his mind—and Bond is a cyborg. Q worries incessantly over poor James because, well, he’s about to be outmoded. MI6 is just a few missions away from declaring him obsolete and taking him apart. So Q tends to use his abilities to keep James behind from missions whenever he can, because he doesn’t want to see his only friend die. Thanks! – cr1mson5thestranger

“He just needs an upgrade,” Q defended, eyes darting beyond the door.

Bond was one of the greatest cyborgs ever commissioned, in Q’s humble opinion. He was from a bygone era, where artificial intelligence actually had some _intelligence_ , and something that passed for a personality.

Q was anomalous, however. He could speak to, communicate with, technology like Bond. Most technology, come to think of it, but laptops were very ineloquent as compared to the complexities of a creation like James Bond, the seventh Agent ever to be commissioned by MI6, and the only surviving member of the original double-oh series.

The Agent was intelligent, funny. Newer Agents had better weaponry, were attuned to download from computers directly into hard drives, were altogether considerably better – and ultimately useful – than Bond could ever be. Q didn’t like them so much. They were less friendly, more obviously robotic, and very mission-focused. They couldn’t cope with being out of the field.

Bond was at ease anywhere. He was a classically brilliant Agent, and Q was adamant that he’d keep Bond alive.

_You do realise this is essentially explorative surgery?_ Bond quipped drily, his communications only audible to Q.

Q smiled, rolling his eyes as he fiddled with a couple of wires in Bond’s chest, the front panel swung open. “If this keeps you in commission a little while longer, I’m prepared to do it,” he returned with a light smirk, refitting a few wires, prodding his glasses further up his nose.

Bond watched him, the scarily human eyes a bright, perfect blue. “You worry too much,” he told Q aloud; he often kept his dialogue with Q internal, mostly because Q could hear the emotions, the inflexions and truth, far better when it was communicated directly into his mind.

Q shut the control panel; the thing sank in slightly, the edges of the panelling almost invisible to all but very trained eyes. A marvellous piece of craftsmanship; it took time, effort, to make something that inconspicuous. “I know I do,” he murmured sadly to Bond.

Bond was worried too; Q could hear it, soft, inexorable murmurs of apprehension and fear, of being commissioned, of being killed. “I won’t let them,” Q said firmly, running a hand over Bond’s arm, listening to the hum of the cyborg’s thoughts. “I know, but you’re unique.”

_Would you keep me, if needed?_ Bond didn’t ask, the thoughts transferring to Q regardless. He glanced at Bond, smiled slightly.

“Obviously,” he replied quietly, and marvelled at the blossoming joy he could hear in Bond’s mind.

_\---_

M called Q into her office, and broke the news, aware of Q’s attachment to the machine known as James Bond.

007 was being officially decommissioned. It would be stripped for parts, the rest gone to scrap.

“He,” Q corrected on instinct, feeling a hollow anger in his chest; they couldn’t take Bond. They _would not_ take Bond. Q glanced up at him, jaw rigid. “I’m not going to allow this,” he warned.

M’s expression didn’t change. “We cannot afford to have an old Double-Oh model loose in the world,” she told him firmly. “I’m sorry, Q, but this is how it must be.”

Q remained very still, a study in tension. “I’ll go say goodbye,” he murmured, with a falsified reticence. He had no intention of saying goodbye, not to Bond; he had promised the Agent safety, and meant it. If it meant leaving MI6, Q would simply cope with it.

“It has already been removed from the premises,” M said simply.

Q was out of the door in a heartbeat.

-

Q was unbelievably close to being too late. He managed to trace Bond to a decommission site for other AI units; the Agent was restrained, understandably, about to have an electric current forced through his system that would overload the circuitry, killing him.

Bond was a machine, yes. He did not ‘exist’, in the colloquial sense, not as humans do. Yet he was important to Q in a way that was primal and immediate and _important_ , and there was no way in hell Q was going to watch him die.

“ _Q_ ,” Bond yelled.

Q sprinted forward, finding the control panel, screaming at the congregated assistants to _shut it down, shut this whole fucking thing down_ , while panic made his heart beat faster than he knew physically possible. He could hear Bond in his head, chaotic terror, in a way the Agent would never show to others.

Everything deactivated; Q’s own relief mingled with Bond’s, the wires snaking off him, releasing the Agent into Q’s custody. “Thought I’d lost you,” Q breathed to him, wrapping the Agent in his arms, trying to calm down while strong arms wrapped around him, held him close.

_Thank you_ , Bond thought, and Q shook his head; there was nothing to thank.

M could do whatever the hell she wanted, Q thought viciously. He was never leaving Bond behind again.

\---

Q breathed harshly, keeping Bond all but attached to him as they made their way to M’s office. They needed to address keeping Bond alive, ensure that MI6 would not seek to remove him at the first possible opportunity.

“Kill him, and I’ll leave MI6,” Q told her, hand tightly grasping Bond’s, jaw white and trembling with tension. “I know the risks, as does he. Bond retains a level of sentience – the Double-Oh programme was _designed_ to create self-aware Agents…”

M held up a hand, and Q listened to Bond’s thoughts swim with worry, squeezed his hand in gentle encouragement. “007 is a highly developed machine, with a rather specific skill set,” she told Q, ignoring Bond altogether. “It cannot be allowed to use any of its skill.”

“ _He_ ,” Q told her, sharp, as Bond’s thoughts detailed his upset unintentionally; he was not even being addressed, not looked at. He did not exist, as far as M was concerned.

Q simply would not stand for it. Bond was too important to be treated with such contempt, as far as Q was concerned. “You will need to take full responsibility for it,” M informed her Quartermaster, dispassionate in the extreme. “If anything goes wrong, you will be culpable, do you understand?”

She was very unsurprised by Q’s sharp, angry nod. “Is that it, _ma’am_ , or can I go?”

“Watch your tone,” she returned, a little less patiently. “I’m allowing you leniency on this, Q. Your righteous aggravation needs to be shelved.”

Q took a calming breath, nodded. “Thank you,” he told her, almost entirely keeping the vitriol out of his tone, and moved towards the door.

“007,” M said quietly; Bond turned, his confusion echoing through Q’s skull. “Do keep our dear Quartermaster safe, won’t you?”

Bond nodded, and Q couldn’t help a slight smirk at the words he could hear in Bond’s head, the sarcasm, the retort lingering on the tip of a tongue. “Good day, M,” he told her, and slipped out of the door after Q.

They walked in tandem along the corridor. Nobody stopped them. Everybody knew who Bond was, but nobody dared broach the subject; they made it out of MI6, into a car, Bond’s thoughts too-loud.

“Because I didn’t want to lose you,” Q told him quietly, in answer to the running question he could hear. “Is that a problem?”

Bond glanced to him, almost surprised. “You could have lost everything.”

Q just smiled at him, very sadly, and shrugged. Bond did not understand, probably would never; he was more important. MI6 was secondary, quite frankly, to keeping Bond alive.

It all became quite entirely worth it, when Bond leant forward and kissed him.


	84. The Cloud Atlas fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! First I wanna you that I love you and your incredible writing! So I would like a bit cloud atlas crossover with Sixsmith as 006. Opposite side of 007 in every single way. Bond thinks there’s something happends between him and Q and Bond gets jealous. In the end it turns out that 006 is dating Q’s twin brother. Thank youu~:)) – happyaria

Bond could see the pair of them talking; Q’s smile was infectious and bright, and the man opposite him had a calm poise to him that was quite difficult to come by in this day and age.

They looked disconcertingly at ease with one another. Q never looked fully at ease with _anybody_ ; he had a constant veneer, one Bond had cracked straight away, and that was rarely seen in MI6.

006, name of Rufus Sixsmith, age 36. Double-oh status acquired eight years previously. Exceptional track record. Currently on record as being in a consistent relationship with an acclaimed pianist and composer, name of Robert Frobisher, age 32.

Which really didn’t explain why in the hell he was getting on _quite_ so well with Q.

“Ah, Bond,” Q smiled, looking away the other agent. “Bond, Sixsmith – you two have met, yes?”

“Once or twice,” Sixsmith replied, with a polite nod. A man born entirely out of his time, that one.

Bond nodded back, a little stiffly, glancing at Q; the younger man sensed something was amiss. Bond refused to explain why while the perpetrator was still in the room. “Can I have a moment, Q?” he asked, with pristine control.

“I should be leaving anyway,” Sixsmith said tactfully. “Do have a listen,” he directed to Q, nodding at the CD on the desk. Something entitled _The Cloud Atlas Sextet_ , apparently. Bond felt a slight shudder of dislike climb in his spine. The man was giving Q _music_.

Rationality be damned. Bond was prone to jealousy, and this was pressing all of his buttons. “Thank you,” Q smiled at 006, still very open and honest. “Send my love, as always.”

Sixsmith nodded, walked away with that refined poise Bond had noted from the outset.

Q heaved a sigh. “What did I do?” he asked lightly.

“006 was all over you, he…”

Q rolled his eyes. “James, you are _unbelievably_ paranoid. Sixsmith has no interest in me whatsoever, we know each other from outside of work.”

That in itself was cause for Bond to be concerned; no double-oh agents knew _anybody_ outside of work, they simply didn’t have the time. 006 was impressive enough for having managed to acquire a boyfriend outside of work; having managed to _accidently_ meet his Quartermaster was pretty much impossible.

Q watched the entire speech play across Bond’s expression, with a small degree of weary amusement. “Bond, he’s dating my twin brother,” Q told him flatly. “I know Sixsmith, because whenever I’m coerced into seeing my absurd family, he is there. If you hadn’t been in Uruguay, you’d have met him before.”

“Twin?” Bond repeated stupidly. Q nodded. “Identical, or…?”

“Entirely identical,” Q confirmed; his expression remained casual, until he noticed Bond’s excitement, mild lust, and went vaguely white. “Bond, you are _impossible…_ ”

\---

 

Q was dressed weirdly. “I like it. The suspenders are intriguingly old-fashioned, even for you,” Bond said, smirking. Q looked at him with suppressed amusement, glancing Bond up and down, looking older without his glasses. Bond’s eyes narrowed.

“A pleasure to meet you, James,” Q said, tone charming as he extended an elegant hand. “I’m Robert, Q’s brother.”

Shit. Q really had not been kidding about identical. Apart from another case of dubious dress sense, and lack of glasses, they had literally no distinguishing features. “What are you doing in HQ?” Bond asked, a sudden thread of suspicion running in his tone; Robert was a civilian, supposedly.

“James?”

Bond turned around, blinking as he looked at Q. He glanced back at Robert, and back to Q. _Good lord_. “Q,” he replied, with as much control as he could muster. “I was just speaking to Robert…

“Yes. 006 is off radar, I got Bobby in on a pass for the time being, until we’ve re-established contact,” Q explained, waving off Robert as he objected – in rather strenuous terms – to being called ‘Bobby’.

Bond watched the pair of them shift into Q’s office, admiring the pair of them as they walked in a slightly creepy semi-union. “Sit down,” Q said to Robert, beckoning Bond over. “I may need to send you out. What do you make of this; his last recorded transmission.”

“It’s correct, but I wouldn’t tap through without a secure line,” Bond said after a moment, scrolling down the screen, reading quickly. “No surveillance?”

“None,” Q confirmed, typing rapidly. “Okay. I can get a line, but it won’t last long before we have a piggyback on it. Robert, over here, if you would.”

Robert moved forward quickly, leaning over Q’s desk; the parallels were startling, the same worry in the same grey-green eyes, the beauty.

And yet, Q was better. He had a sharper edge of intelligence, a slightly different set to his shoulders, altogether more edged. Robert had the air of a creator, an ‘artist’ in the most bohemian and irritating sense of the word; he draped a little over the desk, his posture slightly less precise.

Q was businesslike, less emotive. He contacted through to Sixsmith – who Bond knew Q cared about – without any visible cracks. Robert masked over care with a casual, flippant veneer; in doing so, he became utterly transparent.

As he watched them more, Bond could discern more difference, shades of the different people. Subtle, but visible.

“My dear Sixsmith,” Robert said, with a smile that was all genuine as he started speaking; Q sat back, watching his brother with a quiet, more restrained smile. The same faces, the different quirks. So dextrous, so _beautiful_.

Bond and Q exchanged glances. Q gave a slight, subtle wink, and disconnected from Sixsmith with a promise that an evac team would be with him imminently. “Be safe, 006, or Bobby will have my head,” Q told him, and disconnected.

“Still not Bobby, you bastard,” Robert reminded him, fingers twitching, as though they were seeking out something. “Thank you, Q.”

“My pleasure,” Q smiled at his brother - and without further ado, he shooed Robert out of the building.

\---

 

Bond could honestly say he was impressed.

Frobisher – Q’s twin brother – had managed to get some of his compositions published. More impressively, he had somehow won the chance to perform the piece in a concert setting, along with some of his other compositions that had yet to be fully accepted by widespread media. His work was being played by the London Philharmonic Orchestra, what was more.

The two double-oh agents, and their Quartermaster, settled in exceptionally good seats to watch the concert. It had to be said; the work was extraordinary. Immensely beautiful, textured, complex. Sixsmith spent most of the concert with a subtle smile of sheer pride, while Q smirked, and Bond just let himself enjoy it; it had been far too long since he’d gone anywhere like this.

Afterwards, they met Frobisher by the exit; the man had got changed, mimicking Q’s contempt for suits or anything so highbrow. He smiled at Sixsmith, his expression questioning, almost seeking approval despite his frequent assertions that Sixsmith was a plebeian who knew naught about true musicianship.

Sixsmith kissed him gently, and Frobisher grinned. “And?” he asked Bond and Q, who were stood a little back, not wanting to intrude on the intimacy of the preceding moment.

“The Cloud Atlas piece is beautiful, Bobby,” Q said, with genuine admiration.

Robert raised an eyebrow. “Call me Bobby again, and I’ll use your real name,” he threatened.

“And I’ll have you arrested for breaking the Official Secrets Act,” Q completed, with a smug smile of having trumped his brother; Sixsmith looped an arm around the slim man’s shoulders, Robert scowling faintly at his brother. Q turned to Bond, hand reaching out to his own double-oh agent. “Dinner?”

There was something ridiculously surreal about two very lethal men, and identical twin genii, sharing a table. Robert brought the bulk of sheer creativity, in a flighty and unfocused way that spoke of insecurity and hyperbolic emotion; Sixsmith was his tempering force, the absolute oasis of calm, in a way that is frankly hard to come across. They needed one another, it was very apparent.

Q and Bond defined themselves by being opposite in almost respect, united solely by their commitment to their jobs, their country, each other.

They were ridiculously similar, Q and Frobisher. Ridiculously, awe-inspiringly similar.

And yet.

Bond’s body curled around Q’s, while Sixsmith held Robert tight to his chest, as thought afraid the latter would vanish; he was unstable, and that was more obvious with each passing day. Sixsmith – an anchor – held him in place, while Frobisher showed him ways of seeing; he could see the beauty of the world, every facet of it. He spent hours, days, weeks of life, trying to convert the intangible wonders of the universe into a new medium, escape and enjoyment and freedom and emotion.

Q was raw obsession, the frenzy and panic, the blinding intelligence and acerbity against Frobisher’s relaxed, almost flippant disregard for so much of the world, all matters outside his scope and range. Q was methodical and precise to a lethal degree, controlled and calm, consistent; he and Bond worked in counterpoint, pulling one another from the brink of self-destruction.

“Rufus invited us round to dinner,” Bond called, a few days later, Q brushing his teeth; he popped his head out, looking frankly alarmed. “He’s cooking, not Robert,” Bond snorted; Q looked passionately relieved for a moment, before ducking back into the bathroom.

\---

Bond had never seen Sixsmith so angry. The man didn’t do ‘anger’, as a general rule; he was a soft-spoken type, in a way that afforded a casual calm to his work. Bond was suave in a confrontational manner, Sixsmith in the type that blended anywhere, never conspicuous.

Robert had gone missing.

It was probably inevitable. The two brothers were so similar that honestly, a mistaken identity had been predictable. Q had told Robert – repeatedly – to get better security, ensure that he was never out alone, had a panic device for if anything should go wrong. Robert, of course, believed himself quite a way beyond such things; he still had a near-childish belief that he was, somehow, untouchable.

If it hadn’t been for the trackers Q had installed in his brother a long while previously, they wouldn’t have stood a hope in hell of finding him. Q had received a special dispensation from M to employ two double-oh agents in the retrieval of a civilian, given that it was almost certain that the group would be extracting information by any means necessary.

Information that Robert simply didn’t have.

Q was in a complete state. He blamed himself; Robert was his twin, a pianist, shouldn’t have had anything to do with this kind of world. Q had caused chaos in getting Bond and Sixsmith out to Pakistan, and didn’t regret it. He would get his brother back.

Sixsmith, meanwhile, was needing to be calmed down by Bond – which frankly, was weird enough in itself. Bond was far from accustomed to calming down other people from blood-soaked rages, especially where Robert – whom Bond classed a friend in his own right, these days – was concerned.

Bond got there first, through more luck than judgement; he crashed into the room, and shot the aggressors on sight. “I’ve got him,” Bond said simply, moving to Robert’s side.

Terror, nausea, cracked into Bond full-force. This was Q. It was his Q, bloodied and beaten and burnt, sobbing at the sudden shadow that loomed over him, ribs visible through white skin. He’d run hands along that skin, pressed a palm into the indent of his lower back, gently brushed hair out of the green eyes that stared back at him.

“Q?” he rasped, voice suddenly closing. “Q, please fucking answer me.”

“James, is he alright?” Q asked urgently, the panic in his voice making him sound younger, more volatile. More like Robert, while Q lay in pieces, so broken. Q’s elegant white fingers mangled, while Robert played music through the ringing blackness of Bond’s mounting panic, the tapping some figment of a desperate imagination where Q was safe.

Sixsmith arrived a fractional second later, firmly moving Bond out of the way, ducking to his lover’s side. “Robert,” he soothed, reaching out; Robert flinched, letting out a hollow cry of pain. “Q, I need a medical team, _now_.”

“On it,” Q replied, voice calmer; Bond stood on guard, his head reeling, half-watching as the figure curled in towards Sixsmith as best he could manage, his voice a thin breath, catching slightly on pained sobs.

“Sixsmith,” Robert mumbled, tears falling down his chalky skin. “You came. S’Q okay?”

Q, in Bond’s ear, gave a small, swallowed gasp. “Tell him I’m fine, and I’m so sorry,” Q managed, voice hitching a little. “Is he… what have they done?”

Bond took a few steps away, fingers still tight around the gun as he moved out of immediate earshot. “It’s difficult to say,” Bond said soothingly, trying to calm down his own lover while Sixsmith curled in a protective arc around Robert’s body; Bond refused to look at his face, unable to handle seeing Q’s goddamn body double wheezing breath, dying by increments. “Q, this isn’t your fault. You need to calm down, we’re doing everything we can.”

As though on cue, Medical appeared; Bond established that they were MI6, helped pull Sixsmith back so they could work on Robert. “He’ll be okay,” Bond told Sixmith, Q. The former’s lips caught in a thin line, the latter trying to fake calm badly. “It’ll be okay.”

\---

 

Robert was taken into hospital, Sixsmith adamantly refusing to leave his side; Bond let the pair of them go, keeping Q in his ear, while his brother cried out in Q’s voice, sending shivers through Bond’s body.

“Jesus _fucking_ …” Q muttered in his ear; he was long since out of MI6, making his way down to the hospital to find Robert. Bond had a strong suspicion he’d forgotten about the microphone that kept him tapped into Bond – Sixsmith had removed his, to concentrate wholly on his partner – thus letting Bond hear the caught curses, the slight hitches of breath that came with Q feeling what could only be guilt.

The moment he arrived, Bond scooped his partner into a solid embrace. Q was in an obvious state, barely maintaining his stoicism, falling against Bond and honestly _shaking_. “Q, this was not your fault,” Bond murmured to him.

Q shook his head. “It’s my job. This is my job, and it’s got Bobby involved. It’s not fair on him, he didn’t… and his _fingers_ , James. They targeted… it’s the thing that matters most, its how he communicates, through his music, and I just…”

Bond hushed him, brushing kisses onto the top of his head. “If you hadn’t been tracking him, it would have taken twice as long,” he pointed out. In practise – if Q had been taken, they still wouldn’t have him back. God alone knew what they would have done in another day, another few days. Fingers could have been the least of their worries.

“He’s my brother,” Q murmured. “I want to keep him safe.”

“You _did_ ,” Bond repeated, as emphatically as he could. “You got him back. He’s safe now, with Sixsmith, and he’ll be alright. He’ll heal. It’s not okay, but it was _not_ your fault.”

Q nodded, sighing slightly; he straightened as Sixsmith emerged, cocking his head to one side. “How is he?” he asked immediately; Rufus sighed a little, looking a little more composed than he had previously.

“He’ll be fine. He needs some time in hospital, physical therapy obviously – but he’s not in any real jeopardy,” Sixsmith explained, collapsing into a chair. “Go see him, Q, he wants to know you’re safe.”

Bond had literally never seen Q move so fast; it was almost impossible to keep up with the man. Q knocked gently on Robert’s door, pushing it open to find his twin looking quietly frightened, but very much alive. “Bobby,” Q said with a smile.

“ _Robert_ ,” Robert rasped obstreperously in reply, and Q grinned.

He would be alright.

\---

Robert was improving, slowly and regularly; Sixsmith, Q and Bond ended up wrapping themselves up in a tight knot, a strange family.

“I don’t resent you for it,” Robert murmured to Q, trying to get through. They were perfect mirrors, pained beyond comprehension for entirely different reasons. “We share a face. Not your fault.”

Q reached out, stroking his brother’s face in a gently intimate move. “I should have thought about it,” he said quietly. “If I had, I could have stopped it, and you wouldn’t…”

Robert rolled his eyes. “Stop being so masochistic. James should break you out of this morbidity, go find him, and stop being ridiculous. Please, Q. I’m the one who’s supposed to be catatonically depressed, not you,” he teased.

“I’ll get Rufus back in here,” Q told him quietly. “Be safe Bobby, yes?”

“Call me Bobby again, and you’ll lose your fingers too,” Robert said crossly, as Q snorted, and sneaked out the door.

-

Q’s phone rang next to him; he yawned elaborately, reaching over to it as Bond moaned next to him, swearing under his breath in a way that always made Q laugh. Bond never usually swore.

“Hello?” he mumbled.

Sixsmith’s voice was bright and delighted, an infectious sound that Q couldn’t quite place or understand. “You need to listen to this,” he told Q. “Put it on speaker, James will want to hear this too.”

Q did as told, Bond sitting up in bed and finally connecting with the phone.

A moment later, Q was gasping, hands flying to his mouth as Bond reached for his wrist, equally as shocked but far more adept at hiding it.

Through the tinny speakers of Q’s mobile, Sixsmith allowed them to listen to the uncertain – but perfectly familiar – strains of the piano melody of his Cloud Atlas sextet.


	85. The Bonding fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a prompt: Omegaverse. James and Q are bonded. Alpha!James and Omega!Q get kidnapped. The kidnappers force Q into a heat. James is restrained. They threaten to let loose another, unbonded, Alpha on Q — and make James watch — if James doesn’t hand over the information they want. End it however you please. – anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: noncon

Q was breathing irregularly, curled up in a tight foetal position, starting to tremble very slightly. Bond could see the thin sheen of sweat beginning to break out over his skin, the inexorable rise of pheromones lacing the air, hitting Bond with the force of a train.

Bond’s stomach clenched. The question was answered, as to was they had been injecting into Q’s body over the past day or so; hormones. They had pumped him full of hormones, triggering a heat.

There was nothing he could do. Bond was cuffed to the wall, unable to shift as much as an inch in either direction, watching Q let out a low keen as heat rolled through his body, agonising, burning him.

The door opened; Q let out a frantic whimper, still collected enough to know he could not be in a room with another Alpha. “James,” he managed, knotting himself tighter.

A single woman. She was a Beta, sent on behalf of the Alphas running this; clearly, they did not trust themselves in a room with a young, pretty Omega in heat. Even she wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell.

“His safety, and bond status, depends on your cooperation,” she said in clipped tones, while Bond’s attention flickered too-rapidly, moving back and back and back to Q.

Bond’s voice was a harsh rasp. “You can’t leave him.”

Leaving an Omega in heat was an incredibly cruel torture. The Beta let out a soft laugh. “We have no intention of leaving him,” she purred. “My dear Mr Bond, you underestimate us. If you do not release the information we require, we will be exposing your Omega to an unbonded Alpha.”

All the air flew from Bond’s body in a frantic rush. “What?” he rasped, as Q let out an abrupt, torn cry. “No. _No_.”

“Within about half an hour, by my estimations, he will be incoherent enough to not even care tremendously,” the Beta said dispassionately. “You have that long, Mr Bond. You need merely call if you wish to talk. If you give us what we require, we will also allow you to satisfy your Omega before it becomes agonising. As I’m certain you’re aware, suppressants are useless by this stage.”

Bond spat a wide and varied selection of curses, furious, noting the dark stains on Q’s trousers, as his body readied itself. Usually, Bond adored Q’s heats, revelled in the time spent with his young lover desperately needy, begging for him, letting their bond intensify with each passing moment.

Q sobbed, body contracting with outright terror. He would not beg, of course not, he was still an MI6 officer and he knew what was at stake, and he would deal with whatever happened but _please_ , please not this.

“I’m so sorry,” Bond told him, trying to twist his ribs free, desperate to reach his Omega. “Oh god, Q. I can’t…”

A lost little sound, almost inaudible. “S’ok.”

Minutes flicked by. Half an hour, as promised.

The door opened.

\---

Everything stopped, eventually, of course. The incoherency of heat, the palpable need, the detailed war between biology and cognisance won by the former, leaving Q to fall apart, quiet and desperate and horrible, crying pathetically in the corner of the room, drenched in sweat and fluids, refusing to look up.

“We will fix this,” Bond said slowly, calmly, trying to get through and failing, if Q’s flinch was anything to go by. “Q, I mean it. MI6 will be here soon, and we will sort this out.”

Q still refused to look at him. He shivered, skin cooling too-fast, leaving him breathlessly cold before the next wave of heat enveloped him, and closed his eyes.

-

When MI6 eventually reached them, Q was still refusing to open his eyes. He had barely spoken, other than pleas – in both directions – and refused to do a damn other thing.

His heat had eventually ended, naturally. He was left curled in the corner of the room, their captors furious with Bond’s outright refusal to do a damn thing they asked, despite Q. Bond remained steady and solid and said not a single word, and watched his bondmate fall apart, watched their bond gradually disintegrate.

Q smelt hideously wrong. Bond was faced with the irritating problem of having been trapped _with_ his bondmate, while the latter went into heat; he had been hard for approximately three days, trying to reach Q, fighting with everything he had and failing.

When he came close, Q didn’t move. He knotted himself up tighter, as though he could guard himself from the world, by now near enough hypothermic; heats needed far better care and attention than Q had been afforded, not to mention the psychological trauma. The Med team had wrapped a blanket around him, but Q was almost catatonic, needed his Alpha.

Bond was not his Alpha, not technically – but he had been, and that had to be enough.

“ _James_ ,” he murmured, breathless, wrinkling his nose slightly at Bond’s smell. He still refused to look. “James, get me away from here, please. Please. I can’t do this any more.”

Bond reached out his hand, curved it around the nape of Q’s neck, gently coxing Q’s head to rest in his lap. Q hiccupped a frightened sob, cringing, taking a moment or two to be soothed and lulled and brought back, breathing in Bond’s scent, just breathing, letting the familiarity drug him by increments.

Once Q was a little more pliant, it was easy enough to slide arms beneath him, lift him up carefully; Q let out another swallowed whimper, of pain this time, Bond’s arms contracting in anger. “I’ve got you,” he told his Omega, in a low voice, absolute control and absolute command, as Q buried his face in Bond’s shoulder, desperately inhaling the disgusting – but wholly necessary, wholly _familiar_ – scent.


	86. The Drowning fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai, I have a 00q prompt for you: Q can’t swim and Bond finds out the hard way. Bonus points for some cpr and mouth to mouth. Thanks love n.n – endlesslysherlocked

Q did not fly. He wasn’t especially fond of boats. However, the dislike of boats was outweighed by the terror of flying, hence Q finding himself on a ferry full of assassins, tourists, a handful of MI6 agents in various levels of cover, and little English pensioners heading towards France.

The mission should have been relatively simplistic, and actually, Q wasn’t supposed to be involved until they actually reached the continent. Given Bond being Bond, however, matters exploded far earlier than expected. A speedboat pulled up alongside the ferry, the assassins went into motion, Bond intervened before they sabotaged the entire boat.

Culminating in a group of assassins holding Q at gunpoint to subdue Bond – the Neanderthals had no _idea_ who he was – before casually chucking him off the side. Q hit the water with a rush of blinding pain in his feet.

Q had enough time to scream really, really loudly before he felt water start to rush around him, and promptly panicked, cursing his long-dead parents for never forcing him into swimming lessons.

-

Bond watched. The moment Q was out of the way, he shot the rest of the assassins cell without really caring about keeping cover, or scaring tourists. He shrugged off his jacket, executing an expert dive into the water next to Q; another MI6 agent was in the speedboat that had pulled up earlier, and Bond damn well hoped he had intelligence enough to pick them up.

Q was already underwater by the time Bond reached him, body limp in a way that was terrifyingly familiar. Bond hooked arms around his body, carefully keeping orientated as he tried to bring Q up; it was easy to swim in the wrong direction, when he had sod-all visibility and could feel himself succumbing to panic.

He broke the surface, almost immediately picked up the agent – Bond made a mental note to highlight his competence to M, when they got back – and laid Q out on the deck of the small boat.

“Q, can you hear me?” Bond asked, ripping open the younger man’s shirt; Q looked terrifyingly small, clothes adhered to his skin, black hair stuck against his scalp, splaying in the water. He wasn’t breathing.

Not this time. _Fuck_ , he was not going to let somebody else he loved die, not like this, _not_ like this.

Bond tilted Q’s chin up slightly, forcing himself to calm as he sought a pulse, held on for several excruciating seconds. He leant down, covered Q’s mouth with his own, gave two rescue breaths before pulling back, and starting regular, rhythmic compressions, blinking out half-remembered images of a red dress and red lips and the certainty of being too late.

The agent called for emergency medical evacuation, Bond concentrating all of his attention in on the terrifyingly limp figure in front of him. “Come _on_ , you bastard,” Bond hissed, aware that he was losing rationality. He leaned forward, administering another two breaths, Q’s lips cold and tasting of dirty water, and he _couldn’t do this again_.

Halfway through the second set of compressions, Bond felt Q’s body contract slightly; he tugged Q onto his side in time for the younger man to vomit profuse quantities of water onto the deck, taking in as much oxygen as he could while Bond rearranged his fluid limbs into the recovery position.

He was alive. _Fuck_.

Bond fell back, adrenaline and sheer fucking _relief_ turning him dizzy, a hand over Q’s head, thumb stroking along his jaw soothingly, keeping him safe until the medical team arrived.

\---

 

Q shivered violently against him, body curved around Bond’s, letting a soft noise as he clung on weakly to his shirt. “It’s okay,” Bond soothed, continuing to try calming his lover, who was still too frightened to be wholly coherent.

“M’cold,” he mumbled; Bond had tried to warm Q up, but it was a difficult feat. January in the English Channel meant icy water, and Q had been submerged for a good few minutes. Bond had done everything he could, was now dependent on the evac team arriving as fast as possible, while he and the other agent bundled Q up in as many layers as they could find.

Bond closed his own body around Q’s, taking the younger man’s hands and wincing as he placed them under his arms – Q was freezing. “Where’s the med evac?” he asked the other agent sharply, met with an apologetic shrug.

Q, meanwhile, pressed as close as he feasibly could to Bond, as though he could melt into the man’s form. “I’ve got you,” Bond soothed. “You need to calm down, Q. Breathe for me.”

A little mewling noise, the type that broke Bond’s heart. “James, shouldn’t be this cold. S’too cold.”

“I know,” Bond murmured, trying to get Q to share his warmth, the young man all but drowning in layers as the other agent shrugged off his own shirt to lay over Q; Bond gave him a grateful nod, and he just smiled slightly, looking over Q with evident worry.

The sound of the choppers was the most welcome sound Bond had ever heard.

Getting Q into a flying vehicle was far harder. He took one look, and started sobbing, loose limbs flailing pathetically, trying to cling onto Bond with absolute terror. “Don’ make me,” he pleaded, clinging onto Bond. “James…”

Medics swarmed the boat, trying to stabilise and airlift Q out; the young man was frantic, trying desperately to make Bond _see_. He couldn’t go on it, he just couldn’t, and not without James, please, _please_.

Bond kissed him softly, finding it horribly painful, seeing Q like this. “We need to get you well,” he coaxed, as medical staff moved around him. “It’ll be over soon, I promise.”

Q was still crying as they started to airlift him up, into the helicopter. Bond watched him go, and turned abruptly to the other agent.

“Get me to shore,” he said curtly.

The agent took one look at Bond’s expression, and promptly obeyed.


	87. The Genderfluid fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is genderfluid, has a fondness for wearing dresses when he’s not at work. He assumed everyone knew, as it was no secret, but James finds out about his boyfriend’s gender identity and reacts less-than-pleasantly. Angst is fine, so long as it ends with fluff somehow? – anon

It simply didn’t come up, to start off with. Q’s workload became abruptly heavier than he expected, affording him little free time in which to indulge his enjoyment of dresses. MI6 simply wasn’t progressive enough to allow him to wear them during office hours, although everybody had grown rather used to Q’s makeup and hair styling habits.

He had never felt entirely at home with his gender. Traits of masculinity became obvious intermittently – more personality based than anything else – and femininity in his gesture, motion, and occasionally clothing.

Genderfluidity was a concept his parents hadn’t even faintly accepted, along with a decent number of people Q met through his life. Q-branch either didn’t know, or knew and didn’t care.

Bond found out unexpectedly. He came to Q’s flat to surprise his boyfriend after a mission, and found Q, answering the door in a black calf-length dress.

He blinked, took a half-step back. “ _What_?” he asked simply, voice closed and cold. “What in the name of god is that?”

“A dress,” Q replied simply, a little drily.

Bond continued to stare at him, Q lingering in the open doorway, words at odds with the mantra in his going _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ with ever-increasing fervour, as Bond continued to mercilessly watch him, expression frozen in place.

Q felt something literally stab into his chest when Bond wordlessly turned, and walked away.

-

Q was curled up in the dress, an oversized jumper thrown over the top, knees tucked beneath it. He felt like a teenager again, the first time he’d come out to his best friend, his family, his first boyfriend.

He didn’t cry. He was a little past that point. The immediate pain died down to a low thrum, the constant buzzing of _well, what did you expect?_ winding through every thought.

The TV was off, but he stared at it anyway, lost in his own head.

His surprise was incalculable when the doorbell rang. He stood, a little unbalanced, walking to the door with a sense of utter disconnection.

Bond stood in the corridor. His expression froze again at the sight of the dress; he guarded it as best he could, watching Q steadily. “It was a shock,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what I think, yet, and I’m sorry for that. Can we talk?”

Q watched him for a long moment.

It was the very first time anybody had ever reacted like that, and bothered to come back again.

Q pushed the door open, and stepped back to let Bond in.

\---

 

“So,” Bond tried, as Q returned to his previous position, tucking his knees under the jumper, the dress pooling around him on the sofa. “I… could you explain, for me? I just…”

So Q interrupted him, and explained. There was little to say. His gender had forever been something moveable, nonspecific; he identified as male for official purposes, was biologically male, but on his own terms and wherever he was able, he found himself unable or unwilling to stay statically in one, constrained gender.

Bond listened, expression clear, free of judgement or really, any commitment to what Q was saying. “Do you… _want_ to be female?” he asked, for clarity; Q smiled slightly, shook his head. The biology simply wasn’t the point, and that was what so few people seemed to understand; all shades, from male to female via androgynous and all variations thereupon, they were all his. It just didn’t matter; some days, he would feel more comfortable in a shirt and tie. Others, a dress.

It was only when he spoke to other people that he realised he was abnormal. Not in a derogatory sense, merely a factual one; he had never seen a _problem_ with it, per se. Other people had problems.

With some luck, Bond would not.

“This doesn’t change who I am,” Q pointed out softly, obviously. “It’s just information you didn’t have. The only thing that could change is your perception.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but as I’m sure you can imagine, something like this asks for a rather dramatic shift in perception,” he pointed out.

Q understood, of _course_ he understood, but it didn’t make him like it. Something which was so _irrelevant_ ; it was just clothes, just mannerisms. He didn’t go out and kill in his spare time. He just happened to dislike being forced to act and be and dress as a man when he _liked_ being feminine. Men were _expected_ to be so much, women equally, and Q disliked either camp; easier to hover in the midst of both.

It didn’t seem so much to ask, to be free of spurious expectations.

“Okay,” Bond managed, after a long while of silence, trying to realign his own head, discard established prejudices in favour of listening to a young man who had not been listened to enough. “I’m sorry this isn’t easier for me. I don’t… I don’t think _less_ of you, it’s just a shock.”

“Do you still want to be with me?” Q asked, with the sadness of somebody accustomed to the answer, used to being hurt.

Bond reached out, straightening the bottom of the dress, a small smile playing in the corners of his mouth. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked lightly, pressing a gentle kiss to Q’s cheek. He would adapt. It would be okay.


	88. The Arousal fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since a traumatic incident, your pick, Q hasn’t been able to get aroused. However, Q keeps encouraging Bond to try as he’s certain that his body will recognize the familiarity with Bond eventually and get with the program. I want the moment that Q’s arousal turns back on. Something completely random and non-sexual, like Bond adjusting his cufflinks, reading the newspaper, etc. – anon

To Bond’s credit, he was ridiculously understanding about the whole thing. Q felt himself utterly absurd, but Bond just soothingly told him to take his time, and it would be alright.

Q had been kidnapped. They hadn’t touched him in any way, barring some bruising, all physical nastiness. The sexual implications had been just that – implications. Yet for some reason, Q couldn’t let go of it, and it had completely stopped him from enjoying any sexual contact with Bond.

Bond shrugged, insisted that it didn’t matter, and patiently waited for Q to recover. It was far from being a problem; Bond was entirely certain that Q would be just fine, with time. Q pestered him constantly, trying to get his body to respond, given that his mind was entirely recovered and just _irritated_ by not being able to have Bond as he wanted.

They wound up on Bond’s bed, the agent painfully hard, Q getting increasing frustrated by his body’s absolute lack of response. Q fell to his knees, mentally completely engaged, loving the feeling of Bond shifting helpless against him, swallowing sharply as Bond’s body shuddered.

Afterwards, Q was forced to concede that he simply couldn’t force a damn thing. He curled up next to Bond afterwards, trembling with anger and upset, wishing there was anything he could do.

A week or two later found them settled in Q’s flat. Q curled in Bond’s arm, drinking a cup of tea, Bond’s arms linked around his front, holding up a newspaper to read over Q’s head. Q wasn’t really reading, was simply lost in his own thoughts, warm and comfortable in Bond’s arms.

Bond yawned, and shifted slightly.

“ _Oh_ ,” Q said quietly.

Bond glanced down at him, kissed the top of his head. “Are you alright?” he asked gently, nuzzling into Q’s hair tenderly.

Q leant his head as far back as possible, tugging Bond into a deep kiss, other hand guiding Bond’s hand to his groin. Bond gave a slightly startled noise. “I have no idea why,” Q mumbled against his mouth. “But I am _not_ going to waste the opportunity.”

Bond placed his paper to one side, extracting the mug from Q’s fingers and placing it to one side. He tucked his arms beneath Q’s body, lifting the younger man up; Q fidgeted, winding up with legs straddling Bond’s body, Bond keeping him supported as they moved into the bedroom, Bond kicking the door shut with his foot.

\---

 

Bond became rather accustomed to it.

 It was never predictable, usually stemmed from something wholly innocuous; Bond would be fidgeting in front of the mirror, trying valiantly hard to get ready for work, when Q would all but pounce on him with a dizzy, exhilarated type of want that came with his body _finally_ cooperating.

Bond invariably made all he could of the opportunity, especially in the light of Q’s more complicated moments.

There was something integrally upsetting about being unable to get aroused while actually _with_ Bond. Q could be mentally engaged to the point of sheer desperation, and found a grand total of absolutely nothing in the way of physical responses; some part of him simply shut down, refused to allow arousal if preceded by sexual contact.

Q cried about it, and Bond told him he was being ridiculous. It was getting better, it was _obviously_ improving; patience was all. Eventually, Q would be able to respond as he wanted, and everything would settle back to normal.

“And if it doesn’t?” Q asked one evening, curled on his side, inches from _screaming_ at his uncooperative bloody body. It was over, done with, all the events of a few months previously with touches and smirks and implications, again and again, it was _over_.

He hated the fact that his body remembered. That he had become so terrifyingly adamant that they wouldn’t humiliate him like that, that he had focused so much attention into restraining his body, that everything had now somehow _stopped_.

Bond’s tongue ran over the hollow beneath his ear, making Q sigh softly. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, so quietly.

Teeth tugged at his earlobe, breath hot: “It doesn’t matter,” Bond purred, hands keeping Q tight to him, loving and gentle and everything Q had never quite imagined Bond was capable of, and was pathetically grateful he was. “Sex is not all that important…”

“Have you _seen_ you?” Q replied, a little petulantly. “I _want_ sex with you.”

Bond laughed, a low rumble, tongue joining the teeth joining the lips, and Q’s shiver ran through his entire body, as Bond focused on the tiniest of spots, and everything lit up, all at once.

Q gasped, eyes flying wide.

Bond simply grinned.


	89. The Other Cat fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q get turned into cats. Moneypenny takes charge of them until they turn human again and takes lots of pictures, of course. I’d love it if Bond turned into a scruffy tom cat that sits on Q in order to bathe him properly. Any other cat shenanigans are up to you. – anon

Moneypenny walked into Q’s office, expecting to have a chat with Q, and possibly locate Bond.

She located him, certainly.

Q had been working on an oblong device, which Moneypenny saw after a moment on the floor, by Q’s chair. Her attention, initially, was taken with the two cats settled on Q’s desk.

Naturally, Bond was a tabby tomcat. Scarred, patches of fur missing from various fights, irritable, hissing outright when Moneypenny approached. Q was a pragmatic, black, long-haired effort with lynx tips, and unbelievably large eyes.

Once Moneypenny had managed to stop laughing, she read through Q’s notes, left open on the computer; the technology was pilfered alien technology, which Q had been working on. A couple of Q-branch kids had fallen victim to it in the past, and had wound up as cats for forty-eight hours apiece.

“So, you’re cats, then?” she snorted at Q, who – quite simply – rolled his eyes. On a cat, it didn’t quite have the same effect as usual. “Alright. I’d better get you both food. Litter trays?”

Q nudged, jumped off the desk, stalked behind the door, shooting a look of contempt and irritation and affront; somebody in Q-branch had clearly beaten her to it. She pulled out her iphone, snapping off shots of Q and Bond in situ, quite definitely feline.

Bond started a possessive stalking perimeter within a few minutes, keeping Eve away from petting Q – which was, to be honest, very tempting – by hissing at her until she backed off, leaving Q well enough alone.

Q, meanwhile, yawned expansively and curled into a ball, napping in the middle of the desk while Bond prowled, emanating a jungle cat more than a domestic creature. He got bored after a while, settling down to groom himself while Moneypenny continued to watch with undisguised amusement.

A few hours later, Bond nudged Q awake. Thus followed a frantic feline not-quite-dialogue, culminating in Bond settling _on top of_ a very ruffled-looking Q, licking him thoroughly, rough tongue working over Q’s head while he mewed disconsolately, trying to bat Bond off him.

Moneypenny filmed the entire sequence. Bond bit her, afterwards. She downloaded the film onto the MI6 servers.

By the time Q was back to put a stop to it, the video had gone viral.

\---

 

The best part was not Bond and Q as cats. The novelty of that wore off relatively quickly, as far as most people were concerned.

No. The best part was that aspects of their short spate as felines remained. Both Bond and Q were curled around one another when they returned to humanity, Q’s hair flattened and neat for one of the first times in his life, Bond guarding him with absolute tenacity.

A week on, and Q was still purring whenever Bond entered the room. He had heightened sensitivity behind his ears – as did Bond, although the latter would not allow anybody close enough to test the theory – and without a tail, had a truly abominable sense of balance.

Bond tried, but was off active duty for quite a while. At least, until he could walk in a straight line again. Thus, he spent his entire time surgically attached to Q, and nobody could do a damn thing about it.

“You _cleaned me_ ,” Q said crossly at one stage, once he’d remembered, once he had watched the video back. “You actually…”

Bond rolled his eyes. “You were grubby, I dealt with it,” he said, with breathtaking simplicity, making Q growl with annoyance. “Don’t eb like that, you enjoyed it.”

Q wrinkled his nose, and harrumphed a little, glancing over the computer screen. “And what are you doing, precisely?” Bond asked, nuzzling into the side of Q’s neck, his Quartermaster torn between serious indignation and genuine enjoyment. Bond pulled back, and Q actually let out a soft whine.

“Busy working on a more efficient obfuscating code than Silva was using; his coding was showy but basic, a few further levels, and I can…”

“I don’t care,” Bond breathed, fingers massaging behind Q’s ears, shifting along the bridge of his nose, under his chin.

Q became absolute putty. He essentially melted into his chair, abandoned all work, eyes shuttering closed and purring with pathetic, keening joy. He didn’t speak, hands falling slack by his sides, letting Bond completely take him apart.

It was _glorious_.

Naturally, however, neither Bond nor Q really considered a more important problem.

The minions caught it on film.


	90. The Amnesia!Q fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> would like amnesia Q. Missing four years, presumed dead, now a blond, German speaking captive doing low level hacking stuff for a group Bond is tasked to infiltrate. Barely remembers English, no memory of Bond at all. But they were lovers once. Bond attempts to rescue him but he hasnt left the compound in four years. Bond wonders if Q is in there at all. – anon

Bond almost missed him.

The young man had bleached blond hair, slightly tanned skin, no glasses, wore jeans and a hoodie and flinched intermittently when anybody moved too quickly or too suddenly, and generally curled up in a corner of the room with a laptop and let himself be ignored.

Four years. Q had been declared dead four years ago, almost to the day, after a burnt-out building had yielded a corpse, melted glasses, and blood which had been positively tested as belonging to Q.

If it were not for his eyes, Bond would have ignored him altogether.

“ _Boy_ ,” yelled a harsh voice, all German; the young man looked up, eyes huge, scrambling to the man’s side and obeying the order to make drinks, while Bond felt everything he knew to be true implode.

Q still had no name. He had not seen the outside world in years. He spoke only German – with an accent so appallingly British that it nearly made Bond laugh – and seemed incapable of managing any English at all.

Most devastating of all: he remembered nothing of Bond. Bond looked, searched through Q’s expression for even the slightest flicker of recognition, any sign that the man he had loved was still there, somewhere. Nothing.

Naturally, Bond lasted about four hours before breaking Q out. He would not go on his own. Bond was forced to drug him, hoist the frighteningly thin man over his shoulder, run from the compound as fast as he was able.

When Q woke, Bond was ready with hair dye; Q let out a small noise, inclined his head, trembling a little. Evidently, it was a ritual he was somewhat accustomed to.

“Q, do you remember my name?” Bond asked, pointedly in English.

Q blinked, made no indication that he understood as much as a word. Bond closed his eyes, as though in pain, and indicated Q’s eyes; Q’s forehead contracted in confusion, and Bond showed a pair of glasses. Thick, plastic-rimmed. Q’s spare pair, from four years previously.

Bond had never quite been able to let go of them. After all, if Q had been abducted, they had established that his primary glasses had been destroyed.

The confusion became quite considerably more heightened.

Confusion was replaced by outright fear as Bond leaned right into his face, inches from Q’s nose; Bond wrapped a hand over Q’s face, fingers skirting to the back of his head, knotting in the straw-like strands of blond, thumb pulling up Q’s eyelid. Bond’s fingers reached in, plucked a contact lens out of his eyes; twenty-four hour ones, only needing to be replaced once a month or so.

Pure, simple shock.

Q shied away, pulling open his other eye, probing for the other, cursing in fluid, eloquent, accented German. Q had never been good at languages, Bond mused with a throttled laugh to himself, calming to glance over Q’s expression.

_“Who are you?”_ he asked, still in German.

Bond smiled, gently ran fingers over Q’s face, the younger man wary and wanting. “Bond. James Bond.”

\---

 

“Bond,” the other man echoed, twirling the contact lens between eloquent fingers, grappling for the glasses; he placed them on his nose, eyes widening almost comically at the world through a frame, the rims visible in his peripheral vision, almost familiar.

Bond sat back a moment, allowed the boy to adjust in whatever strangled way he could. “ _I don’t understand_ ,” he told Bond, in German.

“English,” Bond said sharply; Q flinched a little bit, glancing over Bond as though expecting further blows. “Q. You are Q, yes?”

The boy continued to show blank incomprehension, merged with honest terror. Bond pointed at himself. “James Bond,” he said calmly. He pointed to Q. “Q.”

For the shortest of seconds, there was true recognition. “Q,” the boy mimicked, and Bond felt his heart quicken at the sound of Q, Q’s voice, wrapped around the familiar initial. Q glanced up quickly, a little shyly. “James.”

Bond smiled, nodded. “James,” he confirmed.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, Q visibly struggling with the mere concept of his own eyesight, let alone anything further. In lieu of anything better to do, Bond reached for the hair dye; Q let out a small noise, inclined his head, trembling a little.

Bond reached forward; the moment they made contact, Q flinched, another high-pitched noise escaping him. “Q,” Bond said steadily; to his surprise, but delight, Q actually looked up. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Q replied.

English.

Bond grinned, Q audibly gasped. They were getting somewhere. Somewhere, lost in this boy’s head, was the real Q, the Q Bond had fallen in love with five years previously, mourned for four years, never quite been able to forget. “Good,” Bond said slowly, still smiling. “I won’t hurt you.”

Q made no indication of whether he’d understood, barring a very small, tremulous smile.

When Bond was all done, Q was sat looking back at him. Black hair – instinctively curling having just been washed – and thick glasses, bottle green eyes, everything he remembered of his Q.

“I missed you,” Bond murmured, trailing fingers over Q’s face briefly; Q shrunk back slightly, blinking in obvious confusion, and Bond pulled back.

Q’s eyes narrowed for a brief moment, and abruptly relaxed. “Thank you,” he said slowly, glancing up to Bond for confirmation, seemingly confused. Bond took a moment to realise Q wasn’t sure whether he was speaking real English or not, was looking to Bond because he honestly wasn’t sure.

Bond smiled, nodded.

Leaned forward, and kissed his Q on the forehead, just because he couldn’t bear not to.

To his surprise, Q did nothing but simply blush.

\---

 

Predictably, Q reacted spectacularly badly to the concept of air travel. Bond got him within spitting distance, before Q had a panic attack that brought him very close to throwing up over Bond’s shoes.

Bond looped his arms around Q’s slim body, holding him firmly, against his chest. Q trembled for a long while, letting out a frantic sob at every shift of the plane, burying his head in Bond’s chest and refusing to move away.

Honestly, Bond could cope with that. He leaned into Q, breathing in the soft scent of Q’s hair, the skin underneath that was somehow perfectly, incessantly Q. It was half-familiar, half gone, and Bond desperately wanted to cling onto everything of Q he could.

“Double-oh seven,” Q breathed at one stage, almost inaudibly, still buried in Bond’s shirt; Bond prised him up, scanning his expression for recognition. Q twitched a slight smile, fingers moving with terrible hesitance to brush Bond’s face. “Double-oh seven?”

“Reporting for duty, Q,” Bond returned, with the cocky arrogance Q had once told him was the most aggravating and wonderful thing Bond did. He kept the tone light, familiar, the way Q would remember, if he would ever remember.

A brief moment, Q’s face lighting up. “James,” he said, as though it was an absolute revelation.

The plane shifted again, and Q’s expression visibly shut off. He dived back into Bond’s shirt, Bond’s arms tighter again, holding him, breathing sporadically as he grasped the fact that Q had, for a moment, remembered.

“ _Where are we going?_ ” Q asked, in German again, voice muffled; Bond stroked his hair, ran fingers gently over his temple. “ _Please_.”

“London,” Bond replied; Q stiffened a little, before abruptly relaxing. “Have you ever been to London?”

Q blinked languidly, shook his head, fixing eyes on the far side of the plane in a way that seemed a little manufactured. Bond stroked through his hair a few more times, deciding it was best not to coax.

Naturally, Q panicked himself senseless when the plane landed. Bond had to all but haul the terrified young man off the plane, getting him onto firm, English ground.

In the middle of the airport, on the tarmac of a runway outside a relatively large terminal building, Q simply stared at the grey and murky sky, breathing. He had been incarcerated for so long, and the sky was so big, and the smell and the taste of the air – metal and water – was so familiar, a slightly different weight to anywhere else, something in tandem with the knowledge that this was _home_ , he was finally home, even if he had no concept of what that truly meant.

He glanced at Bond, who watched him with mild interest and amusement. A slight, stifled smile. “London,” Q said quietly, as drizzle flicked onto his glasses, and he almost giggled at the feel of it. “There’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever England,” he said, almost by rote, words with no meaning.

“What was that?” Bond asked, wondering if he had honestly just heard correctly.

Q stared at the sky, utterly distracted. “I recited poetry, when they started, when they wanted me to betray…”

He cut off with terrifying suddenness, contracting into himself. The motion made his glasses slip, the realisation that he was _wearing_ glasses caused a panic, and a vicious circle wound up with Q in another near-frenzy, Bond placating him as best he could, buoyed up by the knowledge that somewhere – _somewhere_ – his Q was waiting for him.

\---

Q settled down in the car, rain spattering in uneasy spasms across the windscreen, England’s token attempt at rain for the day. London passed by, colour and monochrome and discolour and bright posters and red buses and grey concrete, all the textures of a city, in a language Q could read but not understand.

It was beautiful.

Bond watched Q fall in love, in magic. Q had always adored London as a city. Imperfectly perfect, he would call it, a contradiction in terms that made Bond snort derisively while Q sulked at the fact Bond could not understand.

Bond loved an older England: the green rolling fields, the littler villages, the class and the standing of it all. An England that barely lived, but thrummed underneath. Everything England had once been.

Q loved the _now_. The life and pulse and heady rush of Britain, the UK, the hubs of activity. Technology and development and edges and motion, everything progressing at a pace nobody could keep time with, and Q could sit at the forefront of his little niche and push for more, push onwards and outwards. That was his England.

He had been captured, tortured for it. His body betrayed it, when Q believed Bond had stopped paying attention. Sagged in the wrong places, breath catching in the wrong places, weight at the wrong angle. He had been torn apart, and stitched back up incorrectly.

One day, Bond would take his revenge.

For now, it was enough to stand with Q in the rain, and hear him whisper something about _pro patria mori_ and realise he was still quoting poetry, hear the bitterness behind those words, know that Q had teetered close, very close, to those old lies.

Home was such an absurd concept, after so long. Bond had never had a home, without Q; his flat – the same flat they had shared – did not constitute home. Not when this creature, the foreign thing who quoted old poems and Latin phrases and spoke German and read aloud in English with an expression of blank incomprehension, no. This was not Q, and without Q, the flat was not home.

At a loss for anything else, Bond took Q to MI6. They would all want to see him anyway, and Medical would want a look, and altogether there was no way in hell Bond could get away _without_ going to MI6 even if there _had_ been a better option.

To Bond’s almost-amusement, the retinal scanners at the entrance still recognised Q, allowed him in without hesitation.

They stepped into Q-branch, and for another moment, a longer moment, this was Q.

Bond watched, mute, as Q lifted up a single arm, palm splayed. The fingers contracted inwards, painted across the images of screens and life and motion, eyes darting to the corner where his office door had been, still was, but somebody else’s office now. The entire branch had been redeveloped a while ago, the large screens gone, but Q’s eyes implanted them and something, somewhere, remembered.

He had to remember, Bond thought with soft sadness, and closed his eyes.


	91. The Love Triangle fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Would love an angsty fill where Bond *dies* in a mission (he’s been taken prisoner by a terrorist organization and they make it seem like he’s kicked the bucket). Q is heartbroken and Alec Trevelyan is tasked by Bond to take care of him in case of his death. Q and Alec eventually fall in love with each other after a year of companionship, and just when Alec has proposed and Q has said yes, Bond comes back, tattered and weeping, desperate to reunite with his beloved Q. – anon

Q glanced up, as the tea settled on his desk, steam spiralling up around him. “I’m sorry,” Trevelyan murmured, glancing over Q with absolute sadness. It was his sadness too, Q knew that; 006 and 007 had known one another, worked with one another, for most of their careers. Bond’s death would hit him, just as much as Q, his closest friend gone.

The emptiness, the pain, sank into his bones and blood. “Thank you, 006,” Q murmured, taking a long sip of the tea. Blimey, he was good at making tea.

“Alec,” Trevelyan corrected, with a soft smile.

It was oddly comforting. Q smiled, nodded. “Alec,” he agreed, and drank more tea.

-

Alec was always there, looking after him. Q knew Bond had asked, which was horrible, but Q could live with that. They were friends before Bond’s death, but only on a casual basis; after losing James, Alec filled the gap.

At least, to start off with. Alec slid into the gaping hole Bond had left in Q’s life, until he became something of his own, something more than Q had ever imagined he could. Separate from Bond, from memory.

He was Alec, and Q realised a long time later that he had fallen in love.

When Alec kissed him, Q felt his entire body explode in light, in warmth. He had known nothing like it since James, and it was so _welcome_.

This time, Q would not let somebody he cared about die before they ever formalised a relationship. He would not waste whatever time Alec had left – and he had so little, so very little, every day brought Alec closer to an inevitable death, and Q could not – would not – watch that again.

He said yes, and Alec slid a ring onto Q’s fingers, and they made love on Alex’s sofa because they just didn’t make it to the bedroom, and Q didn’t think about Bond at all, for the first time in what felt like forever.

-

And then, of course, he came back. Q should have known better. James Bond always came back.

-

“ _Q_ ,” Bond cried, all broken edges and impossible sadness and so much more pain than Q known possible, all lit, set on fire by the sight of a simple silver ring throttling Q’s finger.

Alec walked into Q’s office, smile dying in situ. “Fuck,” he said softly.

“James,” Q whispered, and felt his vision blur.

\---

 

“You’re alive,” Alec murmured, looking over James Bond. His closest friend, the best agent he would probably ever know, his rival and companion, the ex-partner of the man he honestly loved, honestly intended to marry.

Q looked like he wanted to be sick, several times in a row, and then throw himself off a cliff for good measure.

It was the single glance at Alec that gave Bond all the information he needed. “Ah,” he said simply, clearly at a loss for anything else. His friend, and his lover. Superb, to know they would jump into bed with one another the moment he was absent. Treacherous thoughts whirled incessantly, clouding judgement and perspective.

“What happened?” Q asked, holding up a hand to keep Alec back, keeping both of them a long way back. “James, it’s been over a year. You couldn’t have made contact, before now? You couldn’t have sent some _form_ of word, I mean, _jesus…_ ”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I missed the part where you have the right to be angry,” he commented, almost dully. “You found a suitable replacement. Just the right type. Blond, shoots things, easily replaceable…”

“Easy now, James,” Alec warned; Bond turned on him with more anger than Q had ever seen from him, and punched him.

Nobody saw it coming. Alec was floored, mostly through shock. Q let out a startled, horrified cry. Bond’s heart broke at the sound of Q’s pain, and the pair exchanged glances from a year of loss while Q’s fiancée picked himself up. “You had to go after him,” Bond hissed at Alec, when he straightened. “You knew I…”

“I knew you were dead,” Alec retorted, equally angry. Two hot-headed agents in a confined space, fighting over somebody they honestly loved, and Q just stood stupidly, watching, mute and horrified and completely unable to deal with a damn thing. “I fell in love, James. It happens. I’d have thought you’d even understand.”

Bond had been tortured, and Q could see it. Possibly with words, and Bond had always been more susceptible to that; somebody telling Bond over and over that he would be forgotten, left alone again when it ended. Once, Bond had told Q – in the darkness of a night, bodies wrapped close, intimate and loving – that he feared being alone more than anything else on the earth.

And then there was Alec, who had been everything Q needed. He kept his distance for as long as he could, as long as Q needed, until Bond had receded from his immediate thoughts and could stand being replaced.

Meanwhile, the pair of them were inches away from _killing_ each other, and Q didn’t even know which he would support. He loved them both. Bond, he had mourned, had laid to rest. Alec was present and immediate, and his finger felt oddly cold, oddly heavy at that realisation.

But for god’s sake, it was _James_.

“I can’t do this right now,” Q told them both, breathing uncertainly. “Please, both of you, stop arguing, it won’t help. I need to think, _please_.”

“Q, love…”

“Don’t,” Q said sharply, and could have cackled at the realisation that he didn’t know who had spoken. He suspected Alec. Alec would hang onto him like that, try to reason, because honestly – he knew Q better. A year can shape a person, and it had, and Alec knew _this_ Q better.

Bond knew a Q that had existed. He had also known – more so, even, than Alec – a Q that lingered under the surface, private and secretive.

They wanted to stay, and Q couldn’t let them. “I’ll… I’ll find you, both of you,” he murmured. “James, go to Medical, for once in your bloody life. You look like hell. Alec, I just… I’m sorry. Go home, or something.”

“I want to help…” Alec coaxed, while Bond stood silently, watching, and Q felt exhaustion seep into his brain, and shook his head. Nobody could help, not with this.

The two double-oh agents stared daggers at each other, raw and wounded and lashing out. “Don’t kill each other,” Q pleaded hollowly, and closed his eyes.

They shut the door behind them, and Q collapsed forward onto the desk, too numb to do anything but stare.

\---

 

Q curled up behind his desk, barring himself from contact, shaking a little. His mind wouldn’t sit still, vacillating from Bond to Alec and back again. Both of them loved him, or thought they did, and Q honestly loved them both back.

After a while, he went home, feeling tired enough for movement to be tricky. Alec was – predictably – waiting when he opened the door, and Q toppled into his arms with a sense of tangible relief. “I don’t know what to do,” he managed, before embarrassedly starting to cry.

Alec knew there was nothing he could say, so he didn’t speak. He held his love close, tighter than ever before, cradling him with something like desperation.

Eventually, words came; Alec needed to say something, needed some way of tying Q to him. “I love you,” he murmured, breathing kisses into Q’s hair while Q cried himself out, into exhaustion, collapsed against him, boneless.

“I’m so sorry,” he hiccupped, fingers tight. “Please don’t be angry. Not with me, not him, I just… it’s _James_ , and I didn’t… I never thought, not this time, not after so long…”

Alec hushed him, kissed the top of his head, nuzzled into his hair slightly just to breathe him. “Go talk to him,” he advised, his own heart breaking a little. “You’ll need to know. Whatever you end up doing… if you stay here, you’ll never know what he’d have said, and that’s… whatever you do, do it for the right reasons,” he managed, keeping Q locked against him for another moment, just another moment or two.

Q kissed him, slow and damp and lingering and shuddering, and left.

-

Q walked out of his flat, and knew where to go without needing to check. It was a slightly cool, overcast but dry, and Bond was a creature of habit and Q had told him that he would be found, and Q always knew where to find Bond, could find him anywhere on the globe, even when Bond had thrown all his equipment into the bottom of a lake. Somehow, Q could always find him.

There was a bench, near where they had once lived. London is full of miniature parks, little enclosures, and this had been the one closest to them; Q would occasionally head out with a laptop, Bond with a gun in his pocket and a silly, contented smile on his face that Q would take the piss out of, and they would sit until Q got cold, and Bond threw his jacket around his lover, and the laptop would run out of charge and they would just sit there, watching the sky darken, Q curled against Bond’s body while he held him carefully, like he was something precious that could be shattered in an instant.

Of course, Bond was there. Q couldn’t help but smile. “Hey,” he murmured.

Bond glanced up. “Hello,” he said gently. “You look wrecked.”

“I feel it,” Q admitted, still standing, hands in the pockets of his oversized parka, the one he had been wearing when they first met. Q sighed exhaustedly. “James, why couldn’t you have contacted?”

“Sit down,” Bond advised, indicating the seat next to him; Q nodded absently, gently settling next to the battered-looking agent. “Christ Q, I missed you.”

Q smiled, lighting up his face. “I missed you too,” he admitted easily, glancing at Bond as though they had never met, suddenly shy.

He didn’t cry. He tilted sideways, leaning against Bond. His warmth, his presence, cutting through the colder air and keeping him safe; Bond hesitated a moment, wary, before placing an arm around Q with unusual tenderness. “I will never stop fighting for you,” he said, after a long while.

A soft, sad noise. “I thought you were dead,” Q managed, wondering if he was capable of crying again, if he wasn’t entirely spent. “I… fuck, I never want to let you out of my sight again, but I’m _engaged_ , James. I love Alec, and I was going to marry him…”

“Was?” Bond interjected, voice a little higher, more optimistic.

Q closed his eyes. “I don’t know any more. I never thought I’d have to make this decision, it never _occurred_ to me. You and your _bloody_ resurrection habit. Just, _jesus_ , James. I tried to rebuild my life…”

“I know,” Bond interjected. He didn’t apologise, didn’t try. He had never been the type, and Q would never have bought it. Bond was not sorry. Sorry for disappearing, certainly, but never for coming back. Not even if it meant he had turned Q’s life upside down.

As far as Bond was concerned, Q was worth everything. He would never be sorry for fighting.

Q could find no words.

He curled against Bond’s side, and watched the sky darken with him, neither speaking, communicating infinitely through speechlessness.

When it got a little too cold, Bond shrugged off his jacket, laid it over Q.

Then, only then, did Q know.

\---

 

It took a little time; Q needed to be certain, could never bear to hurt either of the people he loved, had loved. Bond and Alec were so perfectly different and terrifyingly parallel, and honestly, it was going to kill him to hurt either of them.

The door opened easily, familiarly, and the occupant smiled.

Q managed a smile of his own, and half-shrugged. “You know,” he said softly, sadly, and saw the expression depress. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, wishing he could make it better, somehow.

He pressed the ring into Alec’s hand, let the agent kiss him very gently, a goodbye.

The difference between Bond and Alec, the reason Q had chosen – would _always_ choose – Bond. Alec simply didn’t fight, and in that gently selfish but ultimately very human way, Q wanted to be with somebody to whom he mattered enough to be fought for.

As it was, Q merely needed to cross the road, and Bond appeared from behind a bloody _bus stop_ to ask if he’d left Alec.

Naturally, Q didn’t bother lying.

Bond scooped into a kiss that was truly bruising, destructively so, over a year of loss and want and pain and rage, of Bond’s torture and Q’s grief, the fitting-together of life wherever they’d managed to find it.

“I love you,” Bond breathed into Q’s mouth.

Q, to Bond’s confusion, shook his head. “Not yet,” he corrected, a little too quickly. “Just… James, you are everything, but not… not at the moment. Not after Alec and everything else.”

To his credit, Bond seemed to understand. Love could not be that easy; not a consistent thing, but alive, immediate. Mutating from moment to moment, never still, and never fair. Loving Alec had changed Q, being gone had changed Bond, and if they tried to cling on to everything they had before it would never work.

Instead, Bond just held Q as close as he could, all but moulding their bodies together.

They remained like that for a long time, before Bond carefully unmoulded, stepped back for a moment or two to look him over. “Would you like to come to dinner with me, Quartermaster?” he asked politely, cheekily, extending a hand.

Q smiled like a teenager, placing his hand in Bond’s. “It would be my pleasure,” he replied easily, and tried to ignore the emptiness, the lightness, on the finger of his left hand.


	92. The Rut Series

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of omega’s going into heat, Alpha’s go into rut and their senses and strength magnify 10 fold. Field agents specifically have to be put in reinforced isolation chambers to prevent escapes and the following assault/harassment on beta’s and omegas. Another quirk of their rut that they can sense their intended mate if they’re within a certain radius. It’s Bond’s first rut after meeting Q and he’s furious that he’s locked inside while Q, his mate, is just out of reach. – runemarks

"Of all the bloody people…" M sighed, watching 007 systematically destroying the holding cell. He was currently barging his shoulder into the door, each push interjected with ever more impressive threats, to add to the scratches and dents and various other bits of damage he had wreaked around the confined space.

“He’s  _mine_  Mallory, you fucking well  _know_  that, you possessive _cunt_!”

Another slam, the door wobbling on its hinges.

“I can  _smell_  him. God, do you really think that this will change anything?! When I get out I swear to…”

M looked back down to his notes, sighing at the gradually increasing list of tasks for the day; a list that now included preventing his top double-oh agent violently assaulting the MI6 Quartermaster. Just another day in the secret service.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for him? How  _fucking_  long I have been…”

Q was taking it all remarkably well, as it happened. He sat placidly at his laptop, half watching the crazed Alpha. To M’s intrigue, he had even agreed to meet with Bond once the whole affair was done.

“Why watch?” M asked, after another ten minutes of Bond’s antics. Q paused, looking up from his programming to glance over the screen again, almost fondly.

“I suppose I wish to know what I am up against,” Q replied, after a moment of contemplation. “Also, it’s rather pleasing to see him so out of control for once in his damn life.”

“Fair enough,” M shrugged.

He and Q spent a moment watching the screen, at Bond near enough knocking the door off, shrieking at the top of his lungs. Next door, Moneypenny could be heard snorting with laughter at Bond’s more imaginative curses.

M shook his head. “Your children are going to be impossible.”

"Tell me about it."

**_\---_**

Q watched Bond from across the table, smirking at the double-oh agent’s evident struggle. He was only just coming out of rut; arousal was prevalent, but he was also very aware that two days ago, he had been screaming his own – rather creative – innermost desires towards Q.

Thus he sat, cross-legged, staring at his coffee.

“My flat or yours?” Q asked suddenly, enjoying the slight splutter as Bond attempted to hold down his drink.

“Excuse me?”

Q smirked slightly as Bond’s face went an intriguing shade, the agent busy mopping up the table. “I believe yours may be closer to work, however I doubt that you have my particular brand of tea…”

“What, you mean now…?” he asked, torn between hope and shock.

Q blinked. “Naturally, but in general, too. It would seem silly to buy a new place, given that we both have perfectly functional homes.”

Bond took a deep breath, trying to realign reality. “You want to move in with me?” he asked slowly, just to check that he wasn’t going entirely insane.

“It would make the most logical sense for me to live with my alpha, yes.” Q shrugged, sipping his now suitable cooled tea. “Once we bond, my heats will start and really, I would much prefer to have you around.”

“I… yes, I mean… Q, look, are you certain? We have only recently met, I’m almost twice your age!” Bond pointed out, looking at the younger man like he had grown another limb.

“And I am your bond-mate. Biology decided that one, Bond, I really have little say in the matter. You  _are_  my Alpha, now we just need to work out the pleasantries,” Q told him, with infuriating calm.

“But if you don’t want to, I would completely understand. Some people go their whole lives never bonding, especially with your work,” Bond pointed out, part of himself wondering quite how he was being this idiotic. His Omega, the man designed to be his other half, was offering himself to him – and he was questioning it. Brilliant. And yet… “I don’t wish to be with you if the only reason is my biology.”

Q smiled slightly. “Thank you, though I think I can safely say that won’t be an issue,” Q told him, delighted at Bond’s response. He reached forward, gently stroking Bond’s hand, trying to establish whether Bond had any control left.

Bond couldn’t help but smirk. “Did I just pass some sort of test?”

“I don’t know _what_  you are talking about 007,” Q told him, with a faint chuckle.

“Call me James, please. I really think we are at that point.”

“Fine:  _James_ ,” Q leaned back in his chair, placing the cup to his lips in a gesture that made him look remarkably young. “And… perhaps.”

Bond snorted. “You little shit.”

Q’s eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead, visibly amused. “Quite. You didn’t think your Omega was going to be some wilting little trophy did you?”

“Possibly. This is much more interesting.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Q returned cordially, finishing up his tea with a slight sigh.

Bond’s control appeared to have reinstated, his smile faintly arrogant. “So. Your flat, then?”

“I’ll let the branch know I’m out this afternoon?”

“Let them know your out for the rest of the damn  _week_.”

\---

****

They ended up in Q’s flat; his, after all, was the one with tea.

They made it as far as the living room.

“Harder! Christ, James…” Q was begging, bent over the arm of the sofa as Bond enacted one of his many rut-made promises. “Oh that’s… that’s beyond…” Q was begging, pleading with him – his normally refined Quartermaster screaming at the top of his lungs as he came.

The tea was definitely a good idea, James thought as Q made himself a cup and moved to Bond’s side. He was wearing one of James’s shirts, which was far too large for him, sipping in post coital bliss.

“When is your next rut?” Q asked, breathing in Bond’s scent from the shirt.

“With you around? Maybe a couple of weeks,” Bond admitted. Normally an Alpha with no Omega would rut every few months, bonded it coincided with heats – so every few weeks.

“Wonderful,” Q commented, lying against Bond’s chest. “I’ll sort out the paperwork – you can move in tomorrow if you like?”

“Here?” Bond asked, a little taken aback. He looked around the flat; it was slightly smaller than his own, still two bed – the master even had an en suite. Q was a young man to have such a large flat in central London, but being Quartermaster had its perks. It was roughly decorated, most of the furniture was a mishmash of antiques and Ikea, but all very Q. Bond got the impression that this was a flat well lived in, one designed for doing more than simply sleeping – unlike his own.

“Well, I know it’s a bit of a mess, and it’s unconventional for me to ask,” Q blushed. “I just thought…”

“No, no I’d love to,” Bond assured him, looking at the old-fashioned hob in the kitchen and large, squishy armchairs. “You know, I always thought you would live in ultra modern comforts,” he admitted.

“I get quite enough of that at work,” Q confided, looking around his home. “And look closer James, you’ll find every piece of technology is the highest spec out there.”

Bond looked again, taking in the home cinema system, mac and large speakers. “Fair enough. Gadget fiend?”

“Wait till you see my soda stream,” Q smirked. Bond rolled his eyes.

“I bet you have a bloody waffle maker…” he commented, kissing his Omega on the side of the head.

“Make you some for breakfast,” Q promised. “Round two?”

“Wonderful.”

-

For the next few weeks, Bond lived happily at Q’s, gradually moving the contents of his own flat into their combined home. It was when, during a low scale mission, Bond strode into the office and all but threw Q over his shoulder did the rut begin again.

“R, take charge,” Q managed, as he was dragged from his post, voice carrying long after his form had been removed, “the rest of you, projects on my desk or emailed by the end of the day –  _I will be checking_.”

This time, Q insisted on the bed. Bond lay him down, pheromones emanating from him – Q melted, Bond smelled perfect. By the time Bond had ripped off his trousers Q was already soaking and ready for him. Lying over his Omega, Bond thrust firmly, pinning Q between himself and the sheets.

“Oh  _Christ,_ James, that’s good, that’s… oh  _GOD_!” he yelled out, as he felt Bond’s knot forming, felt himself stretch.

“Alright?” Bond gasped, not ceasing in his rhythm.

“Yes, no, well it hurts, but it’s a  _good_ hurt, keep going, going, oh stretch oh  _fuck_ ,” Q garbled, his beautifully crisp accent making each expletive sound delightfully debauched. Words were beyond Bond at this point; he sped up, almost ripping the young man open as his knot rose. Q was crying out in ecstasy, tears at the corners of his eyes as his body received his Alpha.

Bond looked down to Q’s blown pupils as he came, knotting in Q’s body. Both gasped as they felt themselves lock together, bonded.

The feral ferocity faded from Bond’s eyes as he looked down at the beautiful creature beneath him. Moving Q’s hair aside, he found his mark and bit down firmly, eliciting another moan from his lover. Their scents were merging, Q’s senses overwhelmed as he lay and begged for release.

Bond’s fingers wrapped around Q’s cock, pumping him. They were still joined, and every thrust, every tug sent further shivers through to Bond.

“James, I…”

Q came messily, back arching away from the sheets, and pressing against Bond’s sweat-slick chest.

They lay together panting, Bond shifting them into a more comfortable position. “It’ll loose soon,” he soothed, the pain relieving powers of orgasm fading as Q squirmed uncomfortably as his body continued to adjust. He nodded, curled into James’s chest.

“Then I’ll be… erm well I’ll be off work for a bit.” Bond admitted, already arousal stinging the edges of his being.

“That’s fine, you forget,” Q gave him an almost wicked smirk. “I’ll be going into heats now.”

“… Fucking  _brilliant_.”

\---

“I’m pregnant.”

Bond spat out his coffee, covering his latest mission brief in murky brown. He looked up at his Omega, Q stood in the doorway of his office.

“What?” He managed, trying to mop up his work with tissue. “You’re…”

“Pregnant.” Q affirmed, stepping closer and stilling Bond’s hands. They had been bonded for just over a year, Q happily on birth control. The heats were… well, they were fucking spectacular. Q would writhe and moan and  _beg_ as Bond felt his own hormones rise, inhaling Q’s scent. Their combined heat and rut could last anywhere between three days and a week, both spending it in heady daze of sex and sleep. Their work had improved dramatically, it was beautiful to behold. Even if it did limit Bond’s active missions, at one point a jet had to double back to the UK the moment Bond caught even a hint.

“But I thought you were…” Bond tried, as Q cleaned up the rest of the mess.

“Never 100% effective James.” Q told him, “I am honestly sorry, truly. I know this isn’t what you wanted, or not yet but…”

“Are you happy?” Bond cut in, holding onto Q’s slim fingers.

“Yes,” he breathed, “god James, I’m bloody  _delighted_  but I know it’s not what you want,” Q told him, trying very hard to stay calm.

“Not yet, not really,” Bond admitted, looking down at their linked fingers. Q nodded. “I think I could, if you really didn’t want to…”

“What? Q no, just no,” Bond stood, hand in hair, “don’t even suggest that. It’s illegal for a bloody reason.” He breathed, jaw tightening. “You… you really want this?”

“Yes. James, I’ve always wanted this.” Q told him, body shaking slightly. Bond looked over to him, still perched on the edge of the desk. In a moment he was holding him, kissing his forehead, arms holding the younger man as he sobbed.

“Then… then its fine. It will work, we will work. It’s going to… we’ll make it ok.”

\---

 

Pregnancy was… difficult.

Q still worked, despite many protests, Alphas flocked around him, desperate to protect and please him. To their credit, Q was dripping hormones here there and everywhere. Nevertheless the constant attention was  _incredibly_  irritating.

The tea was a perk; 004 now knew  _exactly_  how he liked his Earl Grey.

Bond was less than ecstatic. He now lived in Q branch while not working, even had his own chair in Q’s office. He would watch over his Omega like a worried mother, making sure he was feed and sleeping and god only knew what else.

He was reading a lot too. After long discussions, mostly with Eve, but a couple with M, he had conceded to the parenting books.

Bond sighed, flicking the page - apparently by this day the baby had the ability to tap dance or some other crap. It wasn’t that he didn’t want children - to be honest, the idea was highly appealing, as it was for most Alphas. Not to mention that when he was in rut, the idea of impregnating his Omega was beyond appealing.

Now, the hormones were calm, and reality was sinking in.

He would have to raise it, clean it, feed it, love it. He would have to come home to it, go to school related things, play games with it, meet it’s partners… It was a daunting thought. Double-ohs often didn’t both bonding, and certainly not breeding - their life expectancy was too short. M had children, five of them, and a very proud Omega wife (marriage was another issue, something about making a honest man of Q… it was insane).

M was encouraging Bond to take a office job with all that he was worth; Bond expected he only had a few missions left before his status was revoked and he was placed behind a desk.

He shuddered, and there it was. The resentment. He didn’t want to lose his career for a child. It wasn’t growing in  _him_.

He shook his head, thoughts playing again and again. He needed to stay alive, for Q, for his family, and he was getting on a bit.

The smell, rather than the sound, altered Bond to Q’s entrance. The Quartermaster’s belly was already slightly swollen, and the bags under his eyes shadowing his face. Despite his haggard appearance, Bond couldn’t help a smile. Q was still beautiful, still his mate, still perfect – and now with a child.

His child.  _Their_  child.

Q returned the smile, placing a kiss on Bond’s head, glancing over his shoulder to the book and grinning further, before returning to his desk and computers.

It would be Q, a little part of him. Maybe his eyes, hopefully his mind.

How on Earth could Bond not love that?


	93. The Holiday Resort Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Oh gosh, I love your fills soo much! Well, it’s um, my birthday and I was wondering if you could make my wish come true! Could you please fill my prompt? : James has to bring Q on a rather dangerous mission and they have to pose as newlyweds on a gorgeous tropical beach resort. Lots of fluff and hopefully a kiss? Please? - bondgirldreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings apply for implied noncon, and violence.

“You got here early.”

Q glanced up, blinking owlishly despite the sunglasses. “Had to beat the Germans,” he replied enigmatically.

“Are those  _board shorts_?” Bond asked, looking over Q with intense amusement. His Quartermaster, normally confined to beautiful tailoring and cardigans, was currently wearing a loose fitting white shirt and lilac shorts, lounging on a beach towel, the epitome of a British tourist.

“Were you expecting speedos?” he asked sarcastically, large sunglasses obscuring his death glare.

Bond shrugged, barely concealing his chuckles. “Trunks, maybe?”

“With my complexion? Honestly, Bond. I haven’t been to the beach since I was twelve. And even in wetsuits I get burnt. I need as much of my body covered as possible.” Q snapped back, pulling out suncream with a factor higher than Bond’s age. “Now, do my neck in a loving, slightly sexualised way,  _darling_ ,” Q mocked, tossing the bottle over wonkily.

It landed in the sand two feet away from Bond. Bond raised an eyebrow, Q pointedly ignoring his lack of general aim. “I could have had anyone for this mission, you know,” Bond muttered petulantly, squeezing a large blob of the viscous cream onto his hands, kneeling on the sand behind the MI6 Quartermaster.

“No. You needed a decent hacker, someone small, young and male,” Q shot back at him. “And since you refused Ryan…”

“That man is impossible,” Bond told him, shuddering at the thought.

“Precisely. Look you needed someone… trophy,” Q said with obvious distaste, rolling his eyes at Bond’s barking laugh. “I am  _bait_ , Bond! Someone is picking young men out of this resort, and since you aren’t their type, you needed someone who was.”

“And we are newlyweds because…?” Bond asked casually, rubbing the cream across Q’s exposed neck in a way that definitely constituted sexualised.

Q leaned back, smiling very faintly, shrugging slightly. “Gay resort, Bond. Occupational hazard. And as honeymooners, we get a much nicer room, which given your desire for class and my desire for space, seemed apt.”

Bond shifted, extending his legs so they trapped Q’s form, the younger man’s back leaning on Bond’s chest. Q froze a little. “So I have to feign intimacy,” he breathed into Q’s ear, making Q blush  _ferociously_. “I’m sure I can manage that…”

Q attempted to grapple for dignity, and failed spectacularly. “I… just…  _what_ , Bond, I thought you, you’re  _straight_ , how are you doing this  _better than me_ , I’m the only one of us who’s  _actually gay_ …”

Bond all but choked in an attempt to not laugh. Q was blustering, still trapped between Bond’s legs, utterly crimson.

It somehow made sense for Bond to tilt Q’s head back, past his shoulder, and kiss him.

Q made a startled noise, before remembering his role; he relaxed further into it, as though trying to prove that he was more in control, that Bond  _hadn’t_  just taken him wholly by surprise.

They broke apart, both breathing a little harder than usual. “Well yes, 007, that’s certainly one way of staying in character,” Q murmured, keeping his gaze as steady as he could manage.

Bond managed a grin, arms looping around his Quartermaster. “I’m off for a swim,” he said calmly, kissing the side of Q’s neck and making him flush elegantly once again.

“Drink?”

“Daiquiri,” Bond replied easily, releasing Q from his grip; Q blinked, evidently shocked. “Martinis are evening drinks.”

Q flushed slightly, but nodded. “Back in a bit,” he smiled, and padded across the sand to the bar.

-

Bond emerged, barely twenty minutes later, to find that Q had never made it back.

\---

Naturally Q had been wearing a tracker. It was embedded in his left forearm, via an amusing little surgical procedure. It did, however, have the benefit of being very difficult to remove or block. Bond looked down at his screen, Q’s little light blinking frantically.

Bond contacted MI6, mouth in a thin line. He wiped a smear of suncream off his shirt; he never wore the stuff, but Q’s body had been pressed against him, and he couldn’t quite forget that. Q had gone on this mission – one of his first active ones – on the understanding that a double-oh agent could, and would, keep him safe.

“Gone?!” M snapped, as Bond relayed the information. “He was never supposed to be actually  _compromised_ , Bond, or have you forgotten your brief?”

“I am aware of that.” Bond retorted irritably. “We were only separated for a matter of minutes…”

“Evidently too long,” M told him curtly. “Tracking?

“Naturally. In pursuit now.”

MI6 were working with a number of unknowns. Their basic information hinged on the simple fact that young men, usually attractive, a great proportion of them homosexual, were being abducted. The most likely theory was sex trafficking, given the relative ages; the gender was unusual, but hardly unheard of. Young, beautiful men could fetch impressive prices in some areas of the world.

Bond was driving with precious little regard for safety or speed limits. The Jeep was hardly his usual, overpriced efforts, but St Lucia was hardly the terrain for an Aston Martin.

He rounded a corner, and the bleeping stopped.

“R? I’ve lost him,” Bond barked into his earpiece, scanning over the screen for data. Nothing; Q’s signal had entirely gone, only the slight aftershock of an insistent beeping. Bond continued on the same trajectory he been on before, tracing where he had last seen Q’s little tracker signal, trying not to consider too closely just  _how_  it had been extracted from him.

If anybody caught wind of MI6 involvement, the mission would go up in smoke. Not to mention that Q could be compromised, something Bond could not conscience.

“Working on it,” R assured him as Bond continued to the point Q had last been.

“R…” Bond growled, the sweltering heat rising in thin, mirage spirals from the broken earth.

“Got him. Weak, but it’s there,” R confirmed, the dot reappearing. “Static location, approach with caution.”

“Fuck that,” Bond muttered under his breath.

“You are still mic’ed, 007,” M told him, with an audible eye roll. “We cannot afford for you to compromise this mission, do you understand? Tread carefully.”

“I’ll do my best,” Bond responded, foot firmly on the accelerator; a mountain was rising in front of him, ominous, no buildings anywhere in the vicinity. “Nearly there.”

Bond pulled up sharply, the car screeching in protest before Bond all but leapt out, the heat stifling outside the air conditioned sanctuary of the car.

Nothing.

“There’s nothing here,” Bond snarled. “R, what the  _hell_  is going on?”

 “Look I’ll run a few scans of the area…” R muttered to herself, typing frantically. “Fuck,  _fuck,_  Bond. They’re underground, we’ll lose comms at that range…”

Bond was already in motion.

\---

Finding the entrance was relatively simple; R had a virtual floor plan within moments, talking Bond through it confidently. Bond was running, gun ready, safety disabled and general temper rather frayed.

The entrance was a large trapdoor, which honestly looked more like a wine cellar than the doorway to a secret base. It opened with a sharp kick, revealing a stone staircase; Bond descended as quickly as possible, hitting the floor at speed and following the corridor around.

It led to a small, circular room. Bond took a moment to scan the area; footprints, fresh in the dust, leading to what appeared to be a pile of sacks.

Pushing them back, Bond smirked, running a finger over the keypad. “Coded door, need an in R,” he muttered, running a hand over the heavy metal door.

R exhaled slowly. “Look on your transmitter; there’s a extendable wire that you can connect to the base of most numeric keypads,” she told him; Bond obliged, the door giving out a satisfying  _beep_  as looped through and found the override. It clicked, and Bond wrenched it open, gun extended.

The corridor was empty. Bond exhaled.

“I’ll lose you if you go any deeper,” R told him, earning a smirk for the agent.

Bond chuckled, jogging down the corridor. “I’ve heard that before, R.”

“Bond!” M reprimanded.

“Either way, you’re on your own 007,” R told him, a moment or two before the system cut out; Bond sighed in honest relief. He hated having his every move monitored, it tended to bode badly for spontaneity.

Bond found himself in a long corridor, doors either side; a handful of guards stood by, looking very confused when Bond came near. He had very little time for it; Bond shot three of the four, leaving the other alive with the gun at his temple to ask what in the _hell_  was going on.

The man garbled in panicked Patwah, waving his arms in front of his face. Bond rolled his eyes, quickly establishing that the man had no hidden weaponry as he spoke, getting increasingly hysterical.

“Where are they being kept?” Bond demanded, the particular dialect of French a little rusty but passable nonetheless, cutting through the melee of panic from the man.

“There, that way!” he managed, pointing to one of the doors further alone the corridor.

“Wonderful, then you won’t mind showing me?” Bond smiled. “On your feet.” He dragged the man upright, barrel to the top of his spine. “Walk.”

The man blubbered in a way that was really rather undignified, fumbling as he tried to indicate the door and grab keys at once, pawing at the door. Bond kept calm with immense difficulty, throwing the man backwards and delivering a non-lethal but rather debilitating shot to the man’s thigh, before kicking the door in.

“ _James._ ”

\---

“Q?” James called, “Q, it’s me – where are you?”

“James, I… don’t come in, please just…” Q managed, Bond groping on the wall for a light switch. Finally, he found it, slamming it down and flooding the new corridor with light; a collection of individual cells, only four of them occupied.

It took only a moment to locate Q.

He was curled in the corner of one of the further cells, arms wrapped around his bent legs, balled up tightly as though he could vanish altogether. His wrists were cuffed together in front of him, head leaning precariously on his knees, flinching at the sudden brightness.

Bond took a surprisingly long time to register that Q was naked.

“Q…” he began, approaching as one would a startled animal, hands ranging over the almost stereotypical barred cells.

“I told you,  _don’t,_ ” Q hissed, head snapping up, green eyes sharp and eloquent and dark with what looked uncomfortably like pain. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Q, I need to get you out of here,” Bond coaxed, trying to work out a way in which to open the cell door, finding another keypad on the side of the door. “Do you have any idea of the code?”

Q let out a soft, sobbing sound. “I don’t want you seeing me like this,” he mumbled, trembling very slightly. “Just… get me clothes, or something, I’ll follow you out, just _go away_.”

Bond fished out the electronic pick, attaching the wires to the base; the predictable beep, and the door clicked open. Q managed another flinch, body pressing into the corner as Bond came closer. “What happened?” he asked softly.

“‘Breaking in’,” Q mumbled, and Bond saw his expression crack for a single second before his face buried back in his knees.

Bond nodded, for once in his life the consummate professional. “Injuries?” he asked, taking off his jacket and handing it to Q; Q’s hand snaked out, pulling the coat closer.

“Multiple,” Q replied, pulling the jacket tight around him. It was ridiculously large, swallowing his thin frame entirely as he sat forward, trying to cover himself, letting out the smallest whimper of pain as he moved.

“Can you walk?” Bond asked seriously, seeing a humiliated flush creeping up Q’s eyes.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted, swallowing, jaw spasmodically clenching. He glanced up at Bond with the most obvious fear he had ever seen from the Quartermaster. “Are they all dead?”

Bond nodded, extending a hand for Q to cling onto. “Four in the corridor. Three dead, the other should have bled out.”

Q went terribly, horribly pale. “There’s more than four,” he said quickly, eyes wide.

The door opened.

\---

Bond raised his gun, only to be met with five others staring back at him. Scanning the newcomers he realised that fighting truly would not be an option, not with Q requiring protection.

“Drop your weapon,” instructed the leading man, in a more colloquial dialect of French. He was tall, well-built, certainly not local to the area. African, most likely, although MI6 woul confirm that later. “You will have one warning.”

Q, behind him, was mumbling slightly. “ _Really_ , only thought there were  _four_ , you bloody  _idiot_ …”

Bond ignored him, concentrating instead on how to approach the situation. His priority, naturally, was Q. Given that Q was potentially unable to move of his own volition, it left them both in a highly precarious situation. “You are abducting young men for sex trafficking,” he confirmed, voice low and steady.

“Correct,” the leader spoke again. “You have an interest in this man?” he asked, nodding towards Q.

“He’s my husband,” Bond replied, without pause. If they thought he was simply an angry lover, rather than an MI6 agent, this might still be salvageable as an overall mission.

“And now he is our property, Mr…?”

“Bond. James Bond.”

The man smiled thinly. “How does a man like yourself come across such a charming weapon?” he asked slowly, glancing at the door. “You also broke through some rather high-security doors. I hope you’re not lying to me, Mr Bond. Once again: weapon on the floor.”

Bond nodded, placing his gun down slowly, never breaking eye contact as another man scooted forward to collect it. “I have friends,” Bond shrugged easily. “You think the arms trade limits itself to South America?”

“Arms dealer?” the man asked, curious. He looked to his colleges, one asking something in French, too fast for Bond to catch it.

“Perhaps we can make a deal, Mr Bond, hmm?” he asked, taking in Bond’s bulky physique and body language “or should I be speaking to your superiors?”

Bond smiled, a touch sycophantically, raised an eyebrow. “I can handle myself, and want him back,” he said, gesturing to Q; the young man was quiet, and Bond had the distinct impression he spoke very little French. Their eyes met for a brief moment, capturing Q’s quiet terror and Bond’s attempt to convey calm, before he looked back at the aggressors.

“Do you have funds?” the man asked, with an unpleasant smirk. “He’s a valuable commodity, I can’t let him go that easily.”

Bond almost laughed, instead he settled for a cryptic smile. “Hardly valuable – speaks none of the language, too skinny, and will burn easily. He won’t sell well.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Q, who was utterly still. The less they thought he was worth, the more likely Bond would be able to get him back. “But yes, I have funds. Do you have others?”

“Perhaps you would prefer something better?” the leader asked, clearly reframing Bond as a potential client. “Let us speak in my office.”

Bond froze slightly. It was an exceptional opportunity concerning the mission; really, this had been the original brief, to attempt to integrate with the system if possible. However, it did stand a very real chance of compromising Q further.

He needed to leave Q behind. “Leave him unharmed,” he negotiated, as calmly as he could manage.

“Of course,” he smiled angularly, looking between the pair. “I’m sure my boys will take great care of your husband.”

Bond nodded; seeing little option, he headed for the door. After conferring quietly, one man followed his boss. The other three stayed behind.

“James…” Q said from behind him, voice shaking, transparently not understanding what was going on. “Don’t… don’t go,  _fuck_ , you can’t leave me here…”

“He is sweet,” the leader commented, with an admiring smile at the planes and dips of the boy’s face. “I could find you sweeter.”

“I just want to look at your stock, discuss further options. I intend to increase rather than swap,” Bond assured him, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving Q alone with his captors.

\---

“You may call me the Tiger,” the leader told him, as their group walked alone the corridor. Tiger stepped easily over the bodies of his dead followers, nudging one out of the way of the door with his foot. “Would you care to step into my office?”

Bond nodded, stepping over the bodies with equal dexterity. “Certainly.”

“Men are cheap, Mr Bond,” Tiger told him, nodding to the fallen bodies. “I know this better than most. Every man has his price; the skill is getting another to pay it.”

Bond inclined his head eloquently, understanding entirely. Everybody can be manipulated, often far too simply, far too easily. “Your extraction was quick,” he commented calmly, guardedly, a slight probe into the larger industry; the faster he could acquire the relevant information, the faster he could return to Q.

Tiger glanced over him, his smile patronising. “We knew of you before you touched on this soil,” he purred; Bond’s eyes narrowed, in obvious confusion. “You made a reservation, for yourself and your partner. It is a very simple case of looking at social networking, and seeing if one of you were the right  _type_ , as it were.”

“What would you ask for him?” Bond asked casually, intrigued. Tiger shrugged,

“Pretty boy, young, a little on the skinny side. With a slight tan and a little more… instruction he could fetch a very high price indeed.” Tiger told him. He moved behind his desk, pulling out a selection of files. “But here was me thinking you wanted to look at the rest of my stock.”

Next to him, the other man shifted, gun still pointed at Bond. “You’ll take someone’s eye out with that,” Bond said drily, smirking sarcastically as the man grimaced.

Tiger chuckled, voice low, a soft insinuation. “If you wish for your boy back, there are certain… arrangements, we could come to,” he suggested lightly, palms upwards, universal indication of peace. His accompanying man did not lower the weapon, but flicked the safety back in a relatively conspicuous manner.

“Go on?” Bond asked, chest clenching uncomfortably.

It was a relatively simple arrangement: Q, in exchange for Bond’s assistance. Q would remain in Tiger’s ‘custody’ for a while longer, while Bond’s loyalty was tested – after that point, they could walk out.

Bond thought of Q’s voice, the expression, the tone. The way he had smiled in the sunlight, and pleaded in the darkness. He could not confirm Q’s safety, and he knew that. The longer Q remained, the more danger he was in.

These people were responsible for at least a dozen abductions, overall. People like the ones Bond and Q had pretended to be. Newlyweds, partners, simple people on holiday, who could never have anticipated this, who had never been trained, never even imagined they could be at risk.

Bond painted on his customary smile, and extended his hand, trying to shake the sound of Q’s voice.

For Queen and Country.

\---

Tiger outlined his duties; transportation, acquisition and general guard work. Bond nodded along, listening intently.

“If this is acceptable, then I would expect that you wish to see your partner, yes?” Tiger asked casually.

Bond gave a slight nod, unable to deny that he had been getting increasingly nervous about Q for the entirety of the conversation. “I can certainly manage this, yes,” he agreed. “You referenced proving my loyalty; how would you want me to do that?”

“Oh, I’m sure we shall think of something,” Tiger replied cryptically. “For now, my colleague will see you out.” Bond raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He followed the other man out and back in the direction of Q’s holding cell, tension making his body a strung line, preparing.

It was not surprising. Asking a known hostile to not harm another was often a rather pointless venture, and clearly, Tiger’s men had no interest in honouring Bond’s demands. “Let me in,” Bond snapped at the man escorting him, impatience rendering him almost speechless, forcing his way in to Q’s side.

“Of course,” the man sniggered, as Bond shoved him aside. Q was breathing heavily, though there were no outward signs that he had been harmed again.

“How are you doing?” he asked, grateful that the group’s English is so weak. Nevertheless, code would be called for.

Q continued to breathe, very quiet, not looking up. “If it had been any… anything else, anyone else, if I’d been handling, I would have told you to leave,” he murmured, voice raspy. A moment, and he let out a short hiccup, mostly swallowed. “Thing is,” he continued, glancing up at Bond for the first time. “I’m not just  _anyone_ , and I didn’t think I was to you, either.”

“You’re not,” Bond replied shortly, unable to meet his eyes. “Believe me… Look I have an out.” He continued. Whatever he was feeling, about Q or otherwise, needed to be boxed and put away. For now.

“Oh?” Q asked bitterly. “For us, or just yourself?”

Bond tried to control the instinct to bite back with anger, more concerned with why in the hell Q was simply not moving. “Both of us,” he said quietly, reaching out a hand to place on Q’s knee; beneath the jacket he still had wrapped around him, he flinched violently.

Q’s eyes were horribly dead. “You’d best get on with it then, 007,” he said, voice very soft, inaudible to those outside; while their grasp of English was poor, it wouldn’t do to blow their cover just yet.

The use of the agent number was an obvious jibe, and still managed to sting.

“They want me to join them, in exchange for you.” Bond told him, trying to invoke some reaction. “I prove myself and we can walk out of here.”

“And you believe them?” Q spat, holding his knees close to his chest. “You  _trust_  them?”

Bond had never seen Q so raw. “I don’t have another option,” Bond pointed out, trying to keep his expression a little more neutral.

Q let out a sharp, hollow snort. “You could have killed them, you could have… fuck, just,  _fuck_. I don’t want to do this, this is not who I am.”

“We have a job to do,” Bond told him simply. “This is big; the more I learn, the better.”

“Bond, this is… They…” Q’s voice broke properly for the first time, and he took a moment. Abruptly, he snapped attention back. “Look, do what you have to, fuck knows the point is moot now – but just remember that  _I am still here_. Remember that, for once, you actually need to keep someone alive,” Q hissed, going in for the kill. “I can’t keep doing this, so please, try and bear that in mind. You can, I can’t.”

Bond took a breath, exhaling slowly, hating what this was doing to Q and aware, distantly, that he could not help. Not yet. “I need to go,” he said softly.

Q closed his eyes, expression contracted.

This time, he didn’t try and keep Bond there. He simply knotted himself tighter, body an exercise in sheer tension, and as the door closed Bond heard a soft sob.

-

Tiger’s expression was hauntingly unpleasant. The young man in the holding cell was younger than Q, eyes wide, visibly terrified. “Loyalty,” Tiger purred. “He’s a newer acquisition. I would be simply  _delighted_  if you could assist in, well. ‘Breaking in’, is what we usually call it.”

Bond froze.

\---

Bond recollected himself, and chose his words very damn carefully. “Not my type,” Bond grunted. “Look, I’m happy to be a gun? But fucking a scared teenager? Not quite my scene.”

“Oh, that is a pity…” Tiger murmured, “I thought you were interested in my stock?” he asked, darkly. Bond shrugged, taking a closer look at the boy in front of him.

Bond smirked a little. “I’m a busy man. I need cooks, cleaners, sex? That’s why I have a husband.” Bond assured him. Tiger still appeared unconvinced; Bond took a breath, hoping very hard he wasn’t going to have to blow the mission. There were limits. Q was not a civilian. Risks came with the job, horrible though it was, but the boy Bond was looking at was entirely innocent.

Bond exhaled slowly, carefully, shifting his body imperceptibly. This was a moment to assess; if he did not participate in this boy’s pain, somebody else would. It depended entirely on how far Bond believed he could move within their organisation, whether it was worth causing pain for the sake of a greater cause.

“Would you prefer something a little older?” Tiger asked, looking Bond up and down in an obvious appraisal. “We cater to all tastes.”

Bond looked at him firmly, in a way he prayed was a suitable mixture of cocky and conspiratorial. “Not for me. Do we have a problem?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tiger held his gaze, before letting out a short, barking laugh. “I like you, Mr Bond. Trust you? Not yet, but you will have opportunities, I am certain, to earn that.” he gestured to one of his men. “My colleague will show you around. I’ll have your boy cleaned up, as a gesture of goodwill, and make it known that he is off-limits.”

“Thank you,” Bond replied, looking to his guide. He hesitated a brief moment, struck with the odd sense of having seen the man before. “Anywhere I can get a drink?” he asked, with an obvious smirk.

 “Follow me, Mr Bond,” the man said, with a distinctive,  _very_  distinctive, American accent.

Bond waited until they were a long way away. “Your lot can’t keep the  _hell_  out, can you?” the man hissed at them. “Fuck, this is  _our_  mission, we’re handling. I’ve been here four months, and you’re not fucking this up for me.”

 _CIA_ , Bond classed in his head; he knew the faces and names of the top agents, was relatively certain this was Alex Walker, an anonymous but excellent agent, relatively high in the agency. “I need my companion out. Get your lot to talk to mine.”

“And risk blowing the whole thing?” Walker hissed at him. “I don’t have a call in for another three days. Think you can wait that long?”

“I can, Q less so.”

“Q? You brought your damn  _Quartermaster_  on active duty? What the hell were you thinking?” Walker rolled his eyes. “Look, I’ll do my best, but if you get in my way then you are on your own. I have put too much into this one for some smart arse Brit to fuck it up.”

It occurred, briefly, that Walker had probably been involved in harming Q. To be undercover for so long in such a climate had some inevitable conclusions.

With a dearth of other options, Bond painted on a smile, and nodded. “Whenever you can. Any way we can avoid further injury?”

Walker glanced at him quickly, sharply. “Compromised?”

Bond raised an eyebrow with sheer, open contempt. “He’s  _Q_. I need to return him in one piece,” he lied fluidly.

“Understood. I’ll do what I can,” Walker told him. “In the interim: keep your head down, do as you’re told, and try not to piss anyone off.” He waited for Bond to smirk, nod again. He strode forward, expecting Bond to follow, and Bond couldn’t help a small snort as he heard the man mutter  _“Damn Brits_.”

\---

“Q?” Bond called, as he opened the door to their temporary quarters. It was little bigger than the previous cell, but there was a bed and a grotty ensuite toilet and shower. Q was lying on the bed, perhaps asleep. He had been washed of any gore and redressed in a large shirt and canvas trousers, both drowning him.

Bond crossed over carefully, glancing over Q’s still form; he reached out, placing a soft hand on Q’s head.

The young man cringed, limbs tucked further inwards, a quiet implosion. “Q, it’s me,” Bond coaxed, moving to a crouch, trying to get Q to look at him. “Are you alright?”

“Hurts, but I’m fine,” Q mumbled, not moving; Bond could hear the fogginess in his tone, the muffle of somebody who had been crying and fervently didn’t want to admit it.

Bond toed off his shoes, and lay next to the other man. “Never know who’s watching,” he breathed into Q’s ear as he pulled the younger man in close. Surprisingly, Q did not resist, letting himself be held as Bond wrapped arms around him.

“Met some interesting people.” Bond told him. “Including a rising star.”

Q’s eyes widened a little; in all undercover missions, it was useful to have universal code phrases. In this case, a gentle play on stars and stripes – and a way of stating, non-explicitly, that there was a CIA agent in their midst.

“Were they helpful to you?” he asked, feeling hope rise quietly, under his skin.

“They are going to give me a few days,” Bond replied, hoping Q would understand his meaning. “See where it goes.”

Q nodded slowly, posture and expression very guarded. “So, we hear in a few days?”

“Yes.” Bond confirmed, squeezing Q’s hand gently to confirm. “For now, they will be getting us some food.”

Everything in Q’s body relaxed, moulding closer to Bond’s body; it was odd, their unprecedented proximity, but Bond had seen enough victims of sex crimes to know that behaviour was not always predictable. He kept Q close to him, let the younger man contract intermittently, trying very hard to be strong. “I didn’t want to leave you,” Bond told him quietly, arms tight, belated protection.

“I know,” Q told him, letting out a small chuckle. “I didn’t think you were that much of an arse.”

“Yes you did,” Bond smiled, eyes closing for just a moment as he breathed in Q’s damp curls.

“Alright, I knew you would have a reason,” Q corrected, “you’re the best we’ve got, and… I suppose I will have to trust your judgement.”

Bond couldn’t help but revel in the feeling of being  _this close_ , of having Q in his arms, an understanding that he was falling prey to emotions concerning his Quartermaster that he had begun to understand while still at the resort. It was a terrible moment to come to such a realisation, but then, Bond had never really been one for timings.

“You owe me for this,” Q told him, snapping Bond out of his thoughts. “I was promised a holiday and ended up being trafficked. I mean, honestly,” he was still giggling a little, laughter a little hysterical but wholly infectious as Bond found himself smiling wider.

Bond raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You wanted a holiday? I think you misunderstood the brief.”

“Well, I want a proper holiday,” Q said firmly, staring firmly forwards. “And you’ll be taking me.”

“Will I?”

Q shot a small glance at him, almost shy, utterly determined. “Yes. I want nothing going wrong.”

“Fine,” Bond grinned. “So – Portugal? Bahamas? Southern India?”

A moment of silence, Q considering carefully, landing on the single most disappointing outcome Bond could have imagined. “Cornwall.”

“…Cornwall?”

“I used to go there with my family,” Q replied, with a distant smile. “No flying, I’ve already got the bloody flight from here. St Ives. There’s ice cream and fudge and body boarding. And I want to go to Cornwall. You’ll even take me to see a show.”

“A show?” Bond confirmed, Q nodding against his chest, filtering out thought by losing himself in James Bond. “How about I just take you to dinner?”

Absolute, radio silence.

“Oh.”

“It’s not compulsory,” Bond teased, his bruised ego hiding somewhere until further notice; Q craned his head up once again, forehead crumpled with visible concern. “If you don’t…”

“No,” Q interrupted quickly. “I… I don’t quite… dinner, yes? Just dinner.”

Bond could hardly blame Q for that. He nodded, impulsively pressing a kiss to Q’s forehead, hoping it would not be construed as anything worse. “Dinner,” he confirmed, and tightened his arms ever closer, terrified for the next handful of days.

\---

Three days. He could do three days. Bond came and went intermittently, appearing with food, without, once even with a change of clothes. The monotony was tiresome, but at least they hadn’t come back. Q spent his days alone, waiting. Unable to access technology he was gradually driven further into the recesses of his own mind.

The fear lived under his skin, in the ache of his body. Q had an odd, fleeting sense that the particular sensation, the brand of disconcertion, would never die away. In the interim he atrophied, waiting for something, for anything.

When the door opened, and it was not Bond, Q experienced blinding, unbelievable panic. The type of terror that inspires incoherency, and cannot be stifled under bravado or intelligence or really, anything Q had left in his arsenal. They were _touching_ him again, manhandling him forwards, out the door. Blindfolded. Only then did he try screaming, a hand clamping tightly over his mouth, breathtakingly strong compared to Q’s admittedly weak body. They had bound his hands, wrists twining together, attempting to remove the ropes but succeeding only in aggravating the burns from days previously.

“We have a buyer,” a voice grunted. “a high price, even for one as pretty as him. Requires an English speaker. I know he’s  _yours_ , James,” the voice was almost mocking, a teasing tone. “but let me tempt you, hmm? Compensation for your loss?”

Q felt utterly paralysed, shaking, unable to see a damn thing that was going on. Bond would not let him be sold, not even for the mission, he wouldn’t.

 _Wouldn’t he?_  murmured some small voice, the voice that would never forget Bond walking away,  _knowing_  what would happen when he did.

Then, of course: “The difference, between my offer, and whatever they’re giving you. You were happy with my offer, you get your money. I just get the excess.”

“That would be highly unorthodox, James, you are new to us after all…”

“My price. I am married to the man, Tiger, my morals are already being relatively stretched…”

Q could hear them conferring, more French – was it French – raised voices, Bond’s again, Q began to lose track as numbers were shot back and forth, bargaining for his life, he would have had to be an idiot to not follow.

His heart hammered louder than he knew possible, even his breathing deafening, trying to follow with minimal knowledge of French, enough to understand a series of people saying  _yes_ , of the relatively transparent fact that they had agreed on something, and people were happy, shaking hands.

Hands tightened around him, and Q bit at the hand covering his mouth; the man behind swore, Q toppling forward. “James,  _fuck_ , tell me I’m not understanding, please, fucking  _hell_  James,  _James_ …”

“I’m sorry,” Bond said, audible even over the screaming, and the will to fight died at once. Energy, clarity,  _thought_  stilled.

He put up no resistance as they hauled him away.

-

“You didn’t  _tell_ him?” Alex demanded, all but pressing Bond up against the wall.”What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I didn’t get a bloody  _chance_  to,” Bond replied, throwing him off, sorely tempted to punch the man. “You told me half an hour before the deal – how was I meant to warn him in that time?”

Q was being handed over to a CIA contact, an undercover agent who was intending to collect the Quartermaster and deliver him back to MI6; he was in no danger, unless something occurred in transit. Unlikely, in all honesty.

And Q hadn’t been warned.

Bond pinched the bridge of his nose hard, mind reeling. Q was never going to forgive him for this. Bond had needed to play the part, the mission required it; he was certainly now an accepted part of Tiger’s group, but it was very possible that he had just lost whatever fractured something he had been cultivating with Q.

A breath, a measured exhale.

They could talk after the mission.

\---

“You are Q?”

The blindfold was removed and Q blinked at the sudden light. Real light, not the artificial glow from the strips that lit his and Bond’s room.

Bond.

Q shut out that particular thought with a snapping anger as he viewed his purchaser. Large man, with oddly small eyes behind thick rimmed glasses. His suit was well tailored, potentially mafia or equivalent. Either way, Q would not be overpowering him in a hurry.

Q flinched – an instinctive reaction, he couldn’t be blamed for that, he was allowed that, he  _had_  to be allowed that – as, oddly, his wrists were untied. “Hush,” the man said, looking a little confused, almost repulsed. Q wondered, for a fleeting moment, if he was a disappointment. If he would be released. Absurd hopes, obviously, but it was something brief to cling onto.

“You won’t get anything from me,” Q managed, flexing his fingers and rotating his wrists.

“You are Q, yes?” The man asked, American. “You’re a good actor, kid, but it’s fine. We aren’t being monitored.”

Even better; they knew who he was. Infinite variants of the word  _fuck_  swam in Q’s immediate mind, wondering if he was about to be tortured for MI6 information, which would just be the cherry on top of this entire bloody debacle. “Who in the hell are you?”

“CIA.”

“Not buying it. I want identification, something, this has been fucked up enough for me to trust some wanker with terrible taste in suits,” Q snapped, defensive and desperate and lividly terrified, recoiling back into himself a heartbeat later as he wondered what they’d do to him for that particular infraction.

“Look, we don’t have much time; flight leaves in…”

Q was gaping at him. “Oh brilliant,  _brilliant_ ,” he laughed, feeling hysteria rising. “Sold, and about to go on a fucking  _plane_.”

“Look, Q…” The man had clearly had enough, reaching for his wallet he flicked out his CIA ID. “There, happy? Your man organised the handover – I need to get you back to London as soon as possible. So yes that does mean a fucking plane!”

Q glanced over the ID. Good, very good, but still potentially fake. “Get me on the line to M, then,” he snapped. “You did a generalised medical check – really nicely handled, by the way, you fucks – so you know what, I just don’t care about you shouting because honestly, I’m a very long fucking way past the point of caring.”

It was sheer pride that kept Q from crying, on the spot. The man pinched the bridge of his nose, shifting up the glasses.

“Look fine, fine – just panic attack later, please? The jet’s waiting,” he told Q, leading him by the shoulder into a car. “I’ll get you a line, but it might take a few minutes. So sit there and hyperventilate all you want, I’m sure the psychs will have a field day with you.”

Q felt something in his blood literally  _simmer_. “Hand me your laptop, you patronising bastard, and I’ll be on to M in less than forty seconds,” he hissed; the CIA man looked politely incredulous, but mostly to shut the mentally unstable Brit up, surrendered his laptop.

Spectacularly bad idea, but Q was not exactly feeling benevolent.

It actually took him forty-three seconds, but nobody was counting, and he did manage to get started on embedding a rather malicious virus in the bastard’s computer, more to prove a point than anything else. “M, what the  _fucking_  hell is going on?”

“Q? How did… never mind, are you with the agent? Do you have an ETA? Do you need medical?”

“Apparently, no and yes.” Q answered in quick succession. “This is…M this is legitimate – I am going back to London?” he asked, hardly daring to hope. His mind was barely able to process the information. Anything other than the immediate was a problem at the moment. The affirmative made the tension in his body recede again, the dizziness return with odd force, exhausted. “Jesus, M.  _Jesus_.”

“Full debrief when you reach the UK. Try not to kill your CIA contact, or indeed his laptop,” M warned, making Q smile faintly. “You will be briefed on everything, you have my assurance. Good to have you back, Quartermaster.”

Q breathed out slowly, let his body fall still, hands loose over the laptop keys.

He was going home.

\---

“My equipment.”

“On the table, Bond,” Q told him, not looking up from his laptop. The wounds were pretty much all healed, a few small scars the only indication of any mishap. Bond had fared less well, a large gash on his forehead and arm still in a sling. Although the mission was being called a success, it had ended very messily. Tiger had refused to be taken into custody, taking out a few civilians and nearly the CIA operative. Alex Walker was still in intensive care, his ribs shattered and left leg crushed.

Bond placed the weaponry on the table, hoping – wondering – if Q would deign to look up. “Q…”

A sharp shake of the head, livid and immediate. “No, Bond,” he said quietly, still staring at his screen, fingers still but watching as though he could make it do _something_ , distract sufficiently. “Could you… could you go, please.”

“What did I do?” he asked quietly, carefully.

Q’s expression constricted inwards, breath a little shuddering.

“You were reckless, with both my mental and physical health.” Q informed him, fingers stilling for a moment.

“I did what was required to keep you safe and to get you out,” Bond affirmed, he sighed, before pulling something out of his pocket. “Catch.”

Q glanced up, hand darting up with surprising deftness, snatching the item out of midair and cradling it closer to his chest. Bond couldn’t fail to notice the sharpness, the quick sporadic bursts of motion, defensive and desperate. “What…?”

“Fudge. Cornish actually,” Bond told him. “Thought you might…” he shrugged, hands firmly in suit pockets.

Q looked down at the confectionary, golden coloured and wrapped in clear plastic – a picture of waves and an ice-cream cone. Q fingered it lovingly for a moment, briefly remembering summers and skies and oceans, and smiled very faintly. “Thank you, Bond.”

Neither of them spoke for an odd moment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you,” Bond said quietly. “I didn’t have time.”

Q nodded slightly, still watching the fudge, almost blank. “I know you didn’t,” he murmured. “I couldn’t warn you when the entire mission was about to go up, either. We do what we have to, for the mission, I know that. I just… is it fair, to pull the ‘I’ve never been in that situation’ card? I thought… you’d sat there  _bartering_  for me, walking away when you  _knew_  what they’d do… I’ve never seen you like that, with another agent, and now I know  _why_  nobody puts you on missions with other agents because you’re almost  _too fucking good_  at your job. I needed you, and you couldn’t, and you’re quite right, but like I said before I didn’t think I was  _just anybody_ , and you let me go when I thought they would… and you didn’t show a  _flicker_  of regret. I know you had to, doesn’t make it any better to be a witness of.”

“No. Would it have helped you if I had shown it? Would it help the other young men in that complex?” Bond pointed out, watching as Q reached out for his tea.

“No, god I  _know_  it wouldn’t. That’s the bloody point Bond.” Q told him. “You don’t have limits, you don’t… but we do James. We can’t do it, can’t just lie back and be fucked for Queen and Country.”

Bond blinked, jaw a little tight. “No, that’s my job,” he said, almost emotionlessly, very cold. “So what do you  _want_ , Q? What do you want me to say, or do?”

Q was still, exhaling slowly.

Honestly, he wanted to  _matter_. To be an exception to the rule. He would never, could never, ask that. As it was, Q knew Bond had gone further than he would do for most; that much was evidenced by the bloody fudge, by the promise of a holiday that both knew they would never go on.

Bond had seen Q at the most vulnerable Q could recall having  _ever_  been. There was an imbalance there that had yet to be addressed.

“I want…” Q tried, unable to look at Bond. “I want you to leave, 007,” Q told him, body shaking.

Bond nodded, turning to the door. “As you wish, Quartermaster.”

“Just not… not yet Bond. Please,” Q murmured, knowing Bond could still hear him. “Not as we are. I just can’t.”

For a moment or so, Bond paused. Q darted a glance up at him, the steady, constant form in the doorway so, absurdly welcome. “Leaving you behind was the most frightening thing I have ever done,” he said quietly, unexpectedly, words barely carrying. He looked over, the pair making true eye contact for the first time. “I was terrified,” he said simply.

Before Q could say another word, Bond was gone.

\---

 


	94. The Circus Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I know you have a lot of prompts, my dear, but I’m traveling right now, and while on the plane I ad an idea for you…what about an AU with James & Q as Cirque du Soleil performers? If you don’t get to it, don’t worry! :) All my love – Cat

Bond’s favourite moment was watching him fly. He would stalk the wings, long before his act was due to start, just to catch a glimpse.

The sudden, perfect silence that descended as the follow spot found its mark. A young man, no older than twenty, lithe body wrapped in colourful spandex. The light caught him, and he  _shone_. Bond had spent hours watching him rehearse, perform, memorising every facet of the artist. He, and he alone, would notice the subtle shift in posture, the deep inhalation, visible even at this distance. Slim fingers reaching for their mark, holding, waiting.

Flying.

The trapeze whooshed through the air, carrying the man by fingertips. He leapt, somersaulting mid air, body stretched out impossibly curled as fell. Lower and lower until his partner, equally clad, reached for his arms. Bond exhaled. Every night he watched, and every night his breath was stolen by this exquisite creature. And every night, the man made it, perfectly landing each movement.

“Just talk to him for fucks sake, and save us all the bloody tension,” Madame said irritably, shaking her head at him. Bond chuckled; Madame had been there years, almost as long as him, and she could always be relied upon to be frank.

Bond raised his eyebrows, as a girl fussed around him, handing him his sticks, paraffin coated and ready. “He’s half my age,” he pointed out.

“You’re not that old,” Madame scoffed. “Besides, my second husband was thirty years my junior and I’ve never had more fun.”

“Disturbing, as ever.” Bond assured her; he was busy doing last minute checks now, lost in his own preparation, the heartbeat before the light and fire would begin, and he needed to be safe for it.

“He watches you too, you know,” Madame told him, as Bond rolled his shoulders.

Bond just shook his head. “Oh fuck off,” he muttered. Madame smirked, disappeared away, let Bond watch the stage in the heartbeat before he walked into the blinding lights and began.

“ _Be safe_ ,” a voice whispered as James went on. He frowned, looking around, indulging in that second.

Behind him he caught a flash of colour, a shiver of bright green eyes.

They were gone.

Bond smiled.

\---

Glitter shimmered across the top of the body paint, fine and throwing off light; Bond dragged his fingers through it, brushing his face messily. He watched himself in the mirror, guiding his fingers around his eyes, coating them haphazardly in a light golden sheen.

Eyes flicked back down; a figure appeared in the corner of the mirror. No make-up, baggy jumper falling over his hands, floppy curls framing his face.

No words were spoken as Q knelt next to him. The boy reached out, rubbing pale fingers through the paint. Bond watched him intently, following the digits as they touched Bond’s face softly. Inhaling once, Q began to paint.

Bond watched in amazement as Q recreated Bond’s make up with absolute precision. He dragged the gold around his jawline, dipping his fingers into the red to cut beneath the eyes, light and shade caught with his sharp blue in the centre, creating every facet of Bond’s makeup without a single reference.

"I watch you," Q breathed, barely audible as he painted. "The flames light up your face, it’s…"

He never finished; Bond kissed him instead, makeup smudging and transferring onto Q’s face, gold and glitter.

Bond pulled away, looking at the young acrobat. Q looked stunned, though not unpleasantly so.

"I didn’t think you’d do that," he commented, a nervous giggle bursting from his newly glittered lips.

"I’ve wanted to for a while," Bond admitted, as Q’s attention turned back to painting him, correcting the newfound smears. "It won’t go with the green," he mentioned, nodding at the gold that had printed on Q’s face.

The boy shrugged, an elegant forefinger painting gold along Bond’s lips. “I thought I needed a bit of a change - I rather like green and gold. Better than silver,” he commented, tossing a curl out from in front of his face.

Q pulled away, and Bond looked into his mirror with quiet shock. “It’s perfect,” he said, observing the pristine diamond patterning. “You’re better at this than me.”

"I’ll just do it every night then," Q joked, smirked slightly as he toyed with his sleeves, falling over his fingers, oversized and cloaking him from the world around him.

"I’d like that," Bond replied softly, reaching out for Q’s fidgeting fingers. "I’d like that a lot."

Q smiled slightly.

He pecked Bond’s painted lips, and was out of the door in an instant.


	95. The Psychopath!Bond fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey….I was wondering if you could do a prompt where 007 is on a mission and he starts humming children songs whilst Q is listening, trying to help out. Q originally finds this endearing but then realises that 007 actually hums these children songs before killing someone. But then have it in two parts, so you see Q realising this. And a part after where Q confronts 007 and he has no idea, and doesn’t know what he is talking about. Then on another mission realises that he does? Thanks in advance – bbcmarveldcsquishy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW CONTENT. Not to mention this is SERIOUSLY DISTURBING.

When Bond started humming  _Eensy Weensy Spider_ , Q had more of a time stopping himself from snorting with laughter than worrying about why. It was very low, of course; the mission was at its apex, and both Bond and Q had fallen silent over the comms. Barring, of course, the almost inaudible humming.

The final line was drowned in gunfire.

“Target eliminated,” Bond said calmly, preparing to get himself out of the building post-haste. Q sourced an exit, and Bond returned home.

Q noticed it a handful more times. Nursery rhymes, little songs, roundabout little tunes that bounced over his tongue. It was halfway through  _Five Little Ducks_  that Q began to feel horribly, entirely unnerved.

A round of gunfire.  _And only one little duck came back…_

 Q gave an unpleasant, rolling shudder. He flicked his mind back; every time, the tunes had preceded somebody’s death. The realisation was probably the single most unnerving thing Q had ever experienced. “I’m dating a psychopath,” Q mumbled to himself, as Bond shot through a door, killing the final bloody duck in the song, Q feeling faintly sick.

-

“You sing nursery rhymes as you kill people,” was Q’s opening gambit. Probably not the best way of expressing it, but Q was feeling pretty freaked out; tact was really not high on his list of priorities. Bond raised an eyebrow. “I’m  _serious_ , James. You hummed ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ while shooting a dozen people, on your last Istanbul assignment.”

Bond was silent for a moment, clearly not believing it. “I’ll look out for it,” he commented drily. “Evidently, you’re unhappy.”

“I wonder why,” Q retorted, and shivered. “It’s creepy, James.”

Bond pulled Q into an embrace, shaking his head to himself. “Alright,” he soothed. “I’ll make sure I don’t do it again.”

-

Bond was humming ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’ – a colossally ironic choice – when he finally noticed.

“Fuck,” he exhaled sharply, eyes widening. “Q, I take everything back. Jesus. That’s… I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t realise…”

“… that you’re a creepy bastard?” Q completed, lip curled in a grimace of true distaste. “Yes, well. Hopefully this will stop you doing  _that_  again. I can’t imagine why…”

“I disconnect when I’m killing people, as much as I can,” Bond filled in, thinking carefully; when it was a slow-moving mission, he allowed himself a moment of escapism before pulling triggers. “I suppose it’s to do with that.”

“Yes,” Q said sceptically, still rather repulsed. “Just don’t do it again, please?”

“Yes,” Bond confirmed, and consciously avoided the instinct to start humming under his breath once again.

\---

Q curled in the duvet, feeling very tired, very angry. Bond had been beyond disconcerting; the nursery rhymes continued, oranges and lemons being the most recent. That was a creepy enough rhyme in and of itself, without the gunfire peppering beneath it.

The bed dipped, and Q had a hard time not screaming. “James, get the fuck out, I locked all the bloody doors,” he snapped; Bond kissed him, the smell so perfect, the lights wholly extinguished.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, a deep rumble through the darkness, and Q remembered the sounds of screams and fire and death, echoed against the hum of song, very slight, but audible nonetheless. “It is honestly unintentional, Q…”

Q sighed, Bond’s lips darting over his naked body, gently extricating the duvet from around him. “You’re fucking insane,” he mumbled, quite honestly, sighing as Bond reached for his cock and closed a hand around it. “Seriously, James. This has to stop.”

Bond’s grin was almost visible, kissing and licking and touching in all the right places, and Q came apart a little, just a little. He was so good at it, and his apology was written in his body, no words, his language all motion and heat and wet kisses, tongue laving over nerve endings.

“It’ll stop,” Bond promised, his voice a low growl, almost unnerving, sensual and immediate. “I didn’t know I knew that many songs,” he continued with faint humour, fingers sinking in, Q letting out a smaller choked noise as he adjusted, reaching up and forward to grasp Bond closer.

“Apparently,” Q managed, and fell quieter, Bond’s shirt loose on his shoulders and trousers slipping to the floor as he pushed into his lover’s body, and Q wailed at the sensation. “Fuck, yes,” he spluttered, making Bond chuckle under his breath.

Bond set a hard, fast pace. Q tried to hang onto his anger, tried to keep the heat and violence alive, and it was surprisingly easy; Bond fucked him with the adrenaline born of having just come off a mission, pinning Q against the bed, taking charge of everything while Q hooked his ankles together and pushed him deeper, harder, faster.

Q was hardly surprised that Bond came first; he shifted out of Q’s body, mouth closing around Q’s achingly hard length. It took only a handful of thrusts, Bond’s tongue, a swipe over the slit before swallowing him, and Q came with enough force to make the dark come alive with colour for a fractional second.

Panting, Q lay there for a moment.

He reached over, turned on the light, and turned white.

Bond’s shirt hung loose, the white stained with lurid gore. The blood started at the collar, looped down in an elegant arc before smearing, four fingermark scores of red across the left, dried dark smears, thin and separated. The trousers were similar, slightly crusted over the black, and Q realised that his lover had fucked him while wearing clothes covered in somebody else’s blood.

Without a heartbeat of hesitation, Q slid out of bed, found some clothing of his own, and left.

Bond said nothing, but for a horrible moment, Q could have sworn he heard a half-throttled tune, carried somewhere in the air.

\---

 

It had been four weeks. Naturally they still had to work together, though most of the time Q was able to get by with minimal to zero contact with the agent. The sight of him standing there, terrifyingly calm, while wearing the dying moments of another human being. It was an image that would never leave Q’s mind.

Fifteenth of October, Q noted the date on his desktop calendar. His mother had thought Dilbert appropriate, a chuckle a day or some other stupid tag line. As he looked up from the desk, his door slammed, and Q heard the unmistakeable tune of cockles and mussels.

Q looked up, startled as James Bond moved towards him.

“We need to talk,” Bond began, as Q’s fingers itched towards his alarm.

“I don’t believe I have anything further to say to you, 007,” Q swallowed, as Bond continued his advance.

Bond licked his lips, teeth gnashing together. “Ok, I’ll rephrase,” he murmured; Q moved, hand darting to the button under his desk. Strong hands encircled his wrists before he could manage it, Bond wrestling him still. “I have a few things I need to say to you.”

“Don’t do this James, please…” Q struggled, trying to break the hold.

“I cannot stop thinking about you,” Bond grunted, pulling them closer together. Q found himself centimetres from Bond’s face, looking once again into those wild eyes. “I miss you, please  _please_ Q. I need you. For god’s sake, just… just…” He sagged, almost pulling them both down as his grip loosened a little. Q twisted his wrists, still unable to break the hold. “Come back.”

Q looked at him, seeing the dark circles, the sallow cheeks. Here was a man falling apart at the seams. “No, James,” he said quietly, not able to meet Bond’s drink reddened eyes. “No.”

Bond let out something akin to a roar as he lunged forward, pinning Q back and behind his desk. Q gasped, terrified, as Bond kissed him messily, body hot against his own. “Stop, please James…” Q managed, as Bond tugged his shirt downwards, practically biting the younger man’s skin as more and more was exposed. “Off, get  _off_  me!” Q repeated, unable to struggle against the sheer weight against him.

“I love you,” Bond was muttering. “I won’t lose you, I swear Q, I’ve lost too many people. I can’t let you go like this…”

“What the fuck is going on?”

M stood in the doorway, looking between the pair. Q’s eyes, wide and terrified, and Bond’s now frighteningly calm. “Lover’s tiff M,” Bond replied, letting Q go instantly. “Just a disagreement.”

M looked to Q; Q was, for a moment, completely lost for words. Bond was staring at him, too much and too bloody frightening.

“Yeah. Yes,” he coughed, adjusting his shirt and glasses. “Sorry about that.”

Bond glanced at Q, eyes bright blue again, no suggestion of the crazed semi-destruction Q could have sworn he had witnessed. Clear skin, standing tall. His once-lover smiled slightly, faintly, a mocking slant to his expression that Q had no clue how to read. “I will see you soon.”

Q didn’t say a word. Bond glanced to the door, back to Q, and ambled out again with a dispassionate air and a snatched tune, to leave Q behind the desk, inches from hyperventilating.

\---

Q rarely slept in the office in the early days; now, with everything degenerating, he had formed himself a makeshift bed. He would stumble in after a multiday mission and collapse on the pillows, dragging the blanket awkwardly over him. Since he had left Bond, it was happening more and more; he simply lost the inclination to leave the security of Q-branch.

On one such occasion, he awoke to find his wrists tied tightly behind his back, body propped upright.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbled, surprisingly not as afraid as he expected. There was a sense of obviousness, the fait accomplit of finally Bond snapping, the incremental incidents mounting up. Weeks,  _months_ , of missions and murders, of seeing things nobody should, of being asked to live and delve within a mindset that was – that  _had been_  – foreign, to a child once. MI6 did different things to different people.

Double-oh agents didn’t usually live long enough for it to matter, that their psyches fell through the gaps.

Q breathed out slowly.

Honestly, the light humming was entirely expected, by that stage.

“Are you going to kill me?” Q asked, there was no bravery, just sheer curiosity. Bond stepped forward into his vision, dressed to the nines as always. He was remarkably crisp, suit dry cleaned, face clean of most of its normal blood and grime. Blue eyes gleamed, though there appeared no mania. Not yet.

“Possibly.” Bond admitted, taking a seat opposite Q.

Q stayed very quiet, for a moment. Bond looked so beautiful, almost like the man Q remembered meeting; only then, that day in the Gallery, he had been unkempt in places. He had been  _human_ , in a way that several further years in MI6 had stripped from him. “James, let me go,” Q said simply. “There’s no point, to any of this, and you know that. You’re trying to scare me, and you’re doing an excellent job, but killing me would be a very bad idea in the long term. Stop now. Retire, go to Corfu or something, and leave me  _alone_.”

“I can’t,” Bond replied simply, leaning forward in his seat. “You are becoming all I can think about, all I…” He shook his head, drawing a gun from his pocket and aiming directly at Q’s forehead. “I can’t have that Q. I can’t have you in here.”

Faced with a gun he had made himself, it was difficult to not be rather scared. “I won’t leave,” Q murmured, low, the faintest of smiles. He leaned in closer, much closer, green eyes terrifyingly bright and electric, forehead touching the cold metal with a fearless caress. “Kill me or not, I will  _never_  leave you alone. I’ll be there every second, every  _heartbeat._ ”

Playing with logic would be pointless, given that Bond was a way away from logic. It was a waste of words.

Q needed a new approach. Leading, in short, to sheer improvisation.

Playing with insanity, well. That was almost easy.

The gun trembled. Bond was gazing at him, eyes slightly glazed as his shoulders shook. “You’re not meant to say that.” Bond managed, gun still level. “For  _fucks_ sake, at least _die_ like everybody else.”

“No,” Q refused, watching Bond’s teeth gnash together with the effort of holding the gun. “I’m not like everyone else Bond, I never was. You love me; that changes things.”

Bond’s smile was delectably slow, elegant. “You are an extraordinary man, Q,” Bond told him lightly, and the gun slid over Q’s cheek, across and down to his throat, falling over his chest to hang limp, in Bond’s hand, Bond watching him with absurd interest.

Q couldn’t help himself. “Yes, I am,” he returned, and for a moment, it was like they always had been. Bouncing off one another with barely-disguised arrogance, Bond smiling and Q neutral and both transparent, and somewhere Bond had disappeared.

Easily, Q shifted his hands back in front of him; he had cutters in his watch, it was impossible to be too careful.

Bond laughed. “Are you going to kill me, Q?”

For a moment, Q considered. He wondered.

“No,” he conceded, expression quietly pitying. “I’m going to knock you out, however.”

The smile remained fixedly in place as Q shot a minute tranquilliser out of his cufflink, and Bond slumped to one side a moment later, the laughter still living on his lips

Q walked slowly to his desk, and contacted security and medical. In that order.

“Goodbye,” he murmured to the unconscious man, and walked away.


	96. The "Cheers Darlin'" Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I love your guy’s work. I have a request and I would like a fic that’s based on Damien Rice’s song “Cheers Darlin” where a man drowns himself in booze as he congratulates his love (the one that got away) in a drunken slur. I would like for Bond and/or John to be the drunk heart broken fools and have Q or Sherlock to be the ones that got away. It could be Q’s wedding or Sherlock’s wedding. If you’d like a fluffy ending that’s up to you guys. Anyway Thank you for all the things! – anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this does have a cont, but I don't know if I'll get through to it tonight...)

Bond stood in the corner of the room, eyes wholly dead, blinking languidly.

Q looked absurdly, sickeningly happy. In some respects, it was nice to see; Q deserved happiness, he deserved the best, and while he hadn’t found the ‘best’ he had found somebody who made him happy enough, for however long a time.

It had to be enough to wait, for now. Stand on the sidelines, the man who had always been in Q’s background, watching and moving and breathing and waiting, waiting after a lifetime of missed opportunities.

 _Q laughed, barefoot in the rain, shoes long since drenched and in his hands, running through London streets in the middle of the night in the pouring rain, and Bond couldn’t help but wonder if he would slice his feet to ribbons on the pavement, but he seemed happy enough, and he had never looked so beautiful, streetlights reflecting off the ripples of rain, an absurd and beautiful creature, and Bond smiled, and took his hand, and Q looked at him like he was perfect, like he was everything, and Bond knew he was drunk and flushed, and Bond – for the first time in forever – realised he was frightened_.

The possibility, the lost chances, would linger. Q moved from person to person, taking his first dance, glancing over intermittently to the one figure in the room who was not moving, only to take prolonged gulps from the flask at his hip and stare, dead, across the floor.

Bond drank, and drank. Lifted his glass in the larger toasts, and smiled an almost-smile when Q met his eyes properly, and Q beamed with something like  _gratitude_ , for Bond finally giving what could be construed as a blessing.

He had known. They both knew. Q had never forgiven him for  _that night_ , drinks after a truly hellish mission, Q getting drunker than Bond had ever seen and running through the rain, through the rain, and Bond watching him and wondering, just _wondering_.

That moment came, went, lost. The loss was profound, immediate, and never quite died. Bond lost his nerve, Q was angry and defensive, and neither ever managed to heal the rift that formed. It became better, certainly, but the scar was red and angry and too sensitive, and broke open the moment Q delightedly showed the world a ring, and Bond’s world imploded.

It could have been him. It should have been, in fact.

It wasn’t, however.

So Bond drank himself into a state where he could feign support for his friend, the man he could have loved forever, and waited.

\---

Q’s ring remained on his finger, a quiet reminder – every time Bond looked at him – that he had lost Q entirely.

For god’s sake, he was  _happy_. Bond had to let him be happy. It was selfish to be angry, to be hurt, to feel  _let down_  by Q’s actions. Q married somebody he loved, was living a life with somebody he loved, and the simple fact that it wasn’t Bond was enough to tilt him back into pseudo-alcoholism.

“James, stop this,” Q pleaded quietly, on one quiet day when Bond stumbled into Q-branch with alcohol on his breath. “Please. This isn’t fair. It’s not fair to watch you do this to yourself.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “How is it ‘unfair’?” he asked drily, a little cruelly.

Q just sighed out a little, expression hardening. “You had your chance, for  _fuck’s_  sake,” he snapped. “You could have tried harder. You could have  _tried_. No, I wasn’t going to fall at your feet, because I have some fucking self-respect and you didn’t seem to appreciate that I’m far removed from your other conquests. You didn’t bother to chase, because I wasn’t worth making the effort.”

Without a word, Bond pulled Q into a kiss.

“Fuck,” a voice murmured from the door.

Q pulled back abruptly, expression wild and almost frightened and disbelieving. “No,” he said simply, staring back at the figure in the doorway, to Bond briefly. Bond, for his part, disconnectedly watched Q; he knew who it was, he knew what was going to happen. Q would leave, run after his lover, his husband.

 _You didn’t bother to chase_.

So when Q went for the door, to follow the footsteps that echoed down the corridor, Bond intercepted. Caught Q’s shirt, pulled him back. “I won’t apologise,” he told Q, voice rough, tired. “I won’t watch again. This is it. This is me, finally doing what I should have done a long time ago.”

Q looked at him with lost disbelief. “I’m married,” he said, as though Bond was particularly stupid. “James… fuck. I need to go.”

“Don’t,” Bond told him, with a touch of true want.

Q looked at him, expression crumpling. For a moment, it truly seemed like he would stay. “I can’t,” he said quietly, and Bond watched him disappear.


	97. The Bond!Vampire Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I love your work, but can I request a NSFW vampire!bond ficlet? Maybe where Q wakes up and Bond is cuddling him, and sexy times ensue? Please and thank you! Preferably as smutty as possible! - anon

Post-coital, Q was a snuggler. He loved nothing more than his lover, breathing in tandem as they came down from their personal highs.

In retrospect, the breathing really should have tipped him off.

Bond was stunning. Chiselled muscles, sharp suits, intoxicatingly bright blue eyes. He looked in his late thirties perhaps, older than Q anyway – a fact which suited the young man, if he were honest. Bond’s arm circled his waist, nose buried in Q’s hair as they lay together.

Q shifted a little, Bond’s arm holding tightly, possessively. “Need to go,” he mumbled, looking blearily at the clock. “Work.”

Bond’s arm was solid, immovable. “I’d really prefer if you didn’t,” he murmured

“Not funny,” Q told him, struggling against him, feeling threads of annoyance. “Seriously, I’m going to be late.”

“You’re not going to work today,” Bond told him, very simply. “I called in for you.”

“What?!” Q asked, managing to shift to face Bond. “What the hell? Why?  _When_?”

“When you were sleeping. And I have a job interview for you tomorrow, you are wasted in a bookshop,” Bond tutted condescendingly; for the first time since they had met, Q began to notice quite how  _cold_  the other man was. And how strong.

Little thoughts began to click, things that Q refused to pay attention to in that moment because  _honestly_ , there were priorities. “You are an excellent computer technician and programmer, correct?” Bond asked.

“Yes, how do you…?” Q asked, eyes gaping as Bond gave him a brilliant, too-sharp smile. Everything clicked, terrifyingly quick. He usually kept them retracted, had never known Q before, and it made so much  _sense_. “You, you’re…”

“Vampire? Of course,” Bond replied, almost kindly, smile still so sharp. “I thought you might have noticed earlier, to be honest.”

“Why are you here?” Q asked, shock creeping in and gluing him to the spot, as a rabbit stares at the oncoming car, unable to move. Vampires were the ultimate upper echelons; politicians, generals, any given industry would have vampires somewhere. Years ago they struck a bargain: they would leave the human population alone, in exchange for each vampire being given a handful of thralls. Humans, that existed to feed and maintain the vampire.

Some vampires had a small army of them; cleaners, accountants, entertainers, sex slaves.

Q’s heart plummeted, feeling honestly terrified. He had just had consensual sex with a vampire. This was never going to end well.

“Originally, I was here to have sex,” Bond teased, breath so hot from freezing lips, a contradiction. “I was considering recruiting you, but I’ll be honest, the sex was higher priority.”

“Recruit me for what?” Q managed, as Bond tangled their bodies tighter, the younger man still utterly paralysed.

“MI6,” Bond told him, and Q was promptly rendered speechless.

“Oh,” Q managed, breathing laboured as he tried to process the information. “The secret service?”

“Yes,” Bond said slowly, “Q-branch, to be specific.”

“Technicians?” Q asked, aware of his own pseudonym. Names attracted attention, especially one like his. His family had enough vampire influence to last a life time; the eldest one of the first humans to be turned in centuries. Needless to say, a new life and a forgotten past was easier.

“Best in the British empire,” Bond nodded, stroking Q gently. “And they want you.”

“Why?” Q asked quietly. He was hardly important; an excellent hacker and technologist, but honestly, he had expected the police to come calling long before a job interview.

“You’re the best.” Bond told him, hand drawing small circles absentmindedly over Q’s lower back.

“And you are?”

“Bond, James Bond,” Bond told him, identical to his voice at the bar when they’d first met, a practised little phrase. “Also known as 007.”

Q nodded breathlessly. “License to kill?” he asked, for curiosity’s sake more than anything.

“Indeed.”

“And… this?” Q asked, looking at their naked bodies with quiet trepidation.

“I desire you,” Bond told him simply, licking a strip from Q’s collarbone to his chin, breath tickling his inner ear. “And yes Q. What you are thinking.”

“But, my work… you… I don’t understand,” Q stuttered.

“I have no intention of taking away your work Q, nor the majority of your independence,” Bond told him, holding Q fast as he continued to slowly attempt to extricate himself. “However, a young man such as yourself is going to attract… attention, shall we say, in our line of work. This is as much for your protection as anything else.”

“Is that what you say to everyone?” Q sneered, feeling Bond catch the hand he was about to raise, anger pulsing quietly under his skin. “How many do you have?”

“You will be my only,” Bond told him, kissing the pulsing artery, a darkness in his tone that was all primal. “It takes something rather special to peak my interest to this level. And I will not see you go to another.”

“But I don’t want this,” Q told him with a touch of utter desperation, as Bond rolled them over, until he was lying on top of the young human. Bond sighed, almost aggrieved, as Q stared up at him with naked terror in his beautiful green eyes. “Please.”

“No,” Bond murmured, and sank his teeth into Q’s throat.

Q screamed, and everything turned white.

\---

The work was great. No; the work was fantastic – his dream job. Currently working under Q, the highest kind of apprenticeship, he was able to work both for Q-branch and on his own personal projects. Everyone knew which job he was being groomed for, though for the sake of confusion he was ‘little Q’, despite being the same height as his superior.

Going home was less fun.

Bond was not cruel, per se. He simply had no concept of what Q actually  _wanted_. He didn’t intentionally cause harm or upset; the sex was reciprocal, the feeding relatively neat as compared what Q knew could occur. The thing that was missing was Q’s input in when, how, where. He had ceased to have voice, somewhere along the line.

Even at work, Bond would hang around pre or post mission, behaving in a way that was far from suited to a work environment. And everyone let him. It angered Q beyond anything else, the way that everyone just  _accepted_ the way he was treated. A lot of Q-branch were thralls themselves, some of the same vampires. It was protection and it was useful, but for some reason he seemed to be the only one who was bothered at work.

“Of course you are,” Ryan told him after he could no longer contain his ranting. “You’re his  _only_ thrall. Bond doesn’t take them, as a rule. And well… you’re the first male he’s ever…”

“I get it,” Q interjected quickly, rolling his eyes slightly. “I just… we were together _properly_ , initially, and that was lovely. I miss that. I miss the James Bond who _romanced_  me.”

Ryan just looked a little bit ill at the concept. “You… he was  _romantic_?” he repeated weakly. “007?”

Q shook his head wearily, and stalked back into his office; he had earned an  _office_ recently, given the calibre and sheer quantity of work he had to do.

Of bloody course, Bond was waiting there for him, looking politely bored. “Hello, Q,” he lightly.

Bond’s expression was truly  _superb_  as Q told him crossly: “You are taking me on a date tonight, James. We’ll both dress up nicely, have a nice evening together, and if I tell you I don’t want to fuck because I’m tired or I’m pissed or whatever, you will listen to me. I didn’t want to be your thrall, but I am, so I’m going to work with it and you can kill me for saying this if you like, but really, I think we could be mutually content if you just  _made an effort_  when it came to  _me_ , as a human being.”

For once in his immortal life, James Bond was lost for words. After a moment, he nodded, chuckling to himself.

“A date?” he asked, looking at Q as though he was a small dog that had just started barking Shakespeare. “You want to go on a date?”

“Yes. Dinner. For me, at least, you can have yours after if necessary.” Q amended, adrenaline coursing through him, exhilarated and bloody terrified. “Although, to be honest, I wouldn’t be upset if you found something – someone – else for dinner this evening. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“You are my thrall Q,” Bond told him firmly, sounding almost confused. “You are my first and indeed only choice. If you are there, then I shall be feeding from you. As for a date? What happens if I refuse?”

Q held his gaze steadily, tone pointed. “Enjoy the sofa this evening,” he flinched, expecting god alone knew what.

Instead, he found Bond’s hand against his check, holding him softly. “I think I can manage one date” he told Q softly, the tenderness calling a blush to rise in Q’s cheeks. “Cheeky shit. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Q grinned, and – quite impulsively – pressed a quick kiss to Bond’s lips. “Eight.”


	98. The Double Oh Pack Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Were society au? Everyone forms packs of various species and it’s unheard of for someone to not be part of one. All the 00s are part of the same pack. They assumed Q had his own but when they discover that he has no one they adopt him. I would love if Q was oblivious to the adoption until it was to late to protest. – anon

Q-branch and the double-ohs were packs, all of their own. One or two of Q-branch had external packs, but really, everybody stuck together; Q-branch were birds, cats, domestic animals mostly. One poor technician was a giraffe – she had an external pack, most of the larger or rarer animals did – but mostly, they stuck together.

Those with the temperament to own a licence to kill were unanimously more lethal animals. Wolves, eagles, a lion; predatory animals.

It was assumed that Q had joined the Q-branch pack. Nobody stayed alone, not if they could avoid it. Loneliness could destroy those left on their own, with no pack to look after them, nobody to love them. A painful, torturous type of half-life.

Bond noticed it first; Q had no scent, no markings. He was clear of the hallmarks of a pack member, had nothing.

The double-ohs decided on something unanimously, for the first time in history.

They would adopt Q.

Q, of course, had no idea. He noticed the sudden influx of agents around him, recognised that they were all crowding closer, taking up ever more of his time, his energy, piece by piece, smoothing him in scent, invading personal space.

It was only after a very long while that it became apparent; the double-ohs had scentmarked him. Q didn’t have a chance of being integrated back into a pack now; he was being gently, but firmly, hooked into the double-oh pack.

“You are aware that I’m a cat?” Q asked Bond lightly, as Trevelyan paced around the office, in his wolf-form, 001 sleeping in the corner as a tiger. “You’re all lethal killing machines. I’m barely the size of 001’s head, when I’m in my were-form. Are you certain you want me, in your pack?”

Bond raised an eyebrow, leaned his head in, bit a little mark into the side of Q’s throat.

Q sighed. “That answers that, then,” he said lightly, and closed his eyes. His body shimmered abruptly.

A moment later, Bond scooped a coal-black cat into his arms, gently stroking the top of his head. “You’re adorable,” Bond coaxed, smirking; and Q – naturally – bit him.

\---

Q was, quite honestly, not the most  _useful_  of pack members when in were-form; he was unbelievably endearing, but when the pack consisted of a number of agents who could rip heads off without trying very hard, it was a little silly having a cat that Bond – as a lion – could literally swallow whole.

He only tried it once, and Q had demonstrated that – tiny or not – he was an absolute _shit_  when scratching at the inside of Bond’s mouth. He had wound up bleeding and in a fair amount of pain, and the injuries had remained in his human form which gave Q no end of satisfaction.

It took another couple of weeks for anybody to realise what they could actually  _do_  with Q.

He was a spy. He was the best  _possible_  spy. He could fit anywhere, see anything, and in human form could destroy half the world via technology. With the double-ohs on side, he also had sufficient protection.

M got Q onto a mission, and it was a true, outstanding success. Q was delighted, and the double-oh pack began to gain infamy in terms of their diversity and unity as a collective.

The only downside was Bond’s truly awesome levels of jealousy.

Q was napping in his office, curled against the panther form of 002, when he was plucked up by the scruff of the neck in somebodys – far larger – jaws. Q mewled irritably, aware that he was  _not_  going to shift while Bond had teeth closed around him, but rather hoping he would be put down soon so he could give Bond a very verbal piece of his mind.

In an act of actual sadism, Bond decided to place Q on top of the bookshelf. Feline or not, heights were not very popular, nor could Q shift when balanced on top of his own bookshelf. Bond, meanwhile, shimmered back into his human form. “Two things. One, excellent mission. Two, you are  _mine_ , so stop flirting with the other agents. I want you as my partner, not just my packmate, and I’ll keep you on that bookshelf until you agree.”

Q blinked, spine rolling, fur on end.

Threats were a very,  _very_  bad plan on Bond’s part.

Q relaxed. He was a cat. Cats landed on their feet. Unless toast was involved, but Q had never really understood that saying, so he didn’t care very much.

Throwing caution, intelligence, and terror to the wind, he  _leapt_  off said bookshelf, and landed squarely on Bond’s face, claws extended. Bond flailed, Q clung on for dear life. Bond switched into wereform, and Q resolutely clung onto Bond’s newly appeared mane, while the agent  _roared_  at a volume that near enough deafened Q.

Eventually, Bond conceded defeat, relaxed. Switched back in human form  _again_. “I’m sorry!” he snapped at Q, hands trying to prise the damned cat off him. “I am  _sorry_ , Q, would you  _calm down_?!”

In a final act of vague malice, Q decided to shift into human form.

While still clinging onto Bond’s head.

Bond gave a final, strangled yelp, and toppled to the floor. 002 slid open one eye, yawned emphatically, went back to sleep. Q finally shifted away from Bond’s head – now very much human size, and more importantly  _weight_  – and Bond sat up. “You deserved that,” Q told him shortly.

“Probably,” Bond conceded.

“I bloody  _hate_ heights.”

\---

 

Q was curled in the far corner of his desk, beneath his lamp. He liked it beneath the lamp. It was probably the warmest part of the entirety of Q-branch, and he was little enough to fit perfectly within the ring of light it cast.

Honestly, he hadn’t needed to use it in a long while. Mostly, he tended to doze with other members of his pack; the double-ohs now migrated to his office, given that previously, they had barely seen one another as pack members. Q’s office was their makeshift home, and the Quartermaster was far from upset about that fact.

Alec Trevelyan – one of the smaller double-ohs, in his wereform, but deliciously warm and very comfortable – was nestling Q between his paws. There was never any sexual or even romantic connotations; werebeings found one another, sought and took comfort in their presence. Q was very aware that he had become a minute werekitten for a reason, and part of it stemmed from a deeply ingrained part of him that liked being cared for by others; not a weakness, nothing to be ashamed of. Simply something that could be addressed by somebody like Alec, who was a lethal killing machine and liked being able to protect.

Bond was less than delighted, to put it very mildly.

Q never, ever initiated or kept physical contact with the double-ohs when in human form. It simply would not do. That level of physical intimacy in human form amounted to being partners; if the context was any less than professional, Q shifted into wereform and  _stayed_  that way.

The distinction was lost on Bond. He saw Q, sleeping in the arms of another member of his pack, and invariably started a fight. Q was getting used to reforming his office on a daily basis, just because of Bond.

It was simpler – when that small – to simply wait it out, and concede defeat whenever Bond plucked him into his own embrace. Q yawned, feline and eloquent, and dug claws into Bond’s paws whenever he got too possessive.

Shifting is not always a conscious decision. Under stress, the body occasionally can shift into its other form for protection. When relaxed, the same is true. Q remembered unintentionally phasing into kitten-form when very stressed in school so he could run away, and conversely, had woken up lying on his desk – very much in human form – attempting to stay under the light and failing monumentally.

Thus, Q managed to wake up at one stage with Bond’s arms –  _arms­_  – wrapped around him.

“Fuck. Oh,  _fuck it_ ,” Q muttered, trying to extricate himself; Bond growled a little, arms tightening in his sleep.

Alec was sitting by the desk, smirking. “I told you,” he grinned. “I  _told you_  he’d get you as his partner. He’s wanted you since the moment you met.”

Q sighed wearily. “Well. That’s that,” he shrugged. He was  _accidently_  brought into a pack, and now had accidently acquired a partner.

There were worse things.

\---

 

Q ambled home, bag slung over his shoulder. Somewhere ahead of him, Bond and Alec were busy fighting; one or the other had done something, leading to Bond bounding off into the distance to find a clear space they could spar in. All in wereform, of course. Q was no idiot; he would be killed in the crossfire in either of his forms, so he just stayed back and walked through the dwindling light.

Muggers.

It was almost insulting. Q was plucked by the back of the collar, and thrown into a wall by an oversized young man. He had a snake with him – never boded well – and a snarling pit bull which Q found honestly more frightening. “Bag,” the boy grunted, in a tone that made Q wonder if his wereform was literally a pig. Or boar, maybe.

Instinctively, Q’s body tried to shift; he fought desperately to suppress it, aware that the bloody snake would probably  _eat_  him otherwise. “Move on,” he advised the only human assailant. “I have a pack, and they’ll come after you.”

The boy looked almost sympathetic. “Yeah, all tiny, huh?” he smirked. “Bet you’re a mouse, or something. Something  _pathetic_.”

Q smirked, looking over the boy’s shoulder while the snake hissed menacingly. “Definitely pathetic,” he confirmed, as the boy was yanked back by the shoulder, and the pit bull trapped within a set of massive jaws. The hand over Q’s throat retreated, and in a heartbeat, Q was in wereform.

The kid saw Bond, and the absolutely merciless expression. He also saw his friend, imminently about to suffer Death-By-Alec, who was in wolf form.

He promptly shifted into a pig, and Q snorted.

“Q?” Bond asked, extending a hand; Q mewed lightly, insistently, until Bond carefully picked him up. He had learned to be very gentle about carrying Q anywhere, given the height-fear, but Q had enough control to look  _exceptionally_  smug.

“This is my partner,” Bond said quietly, coldly. “My friend here,” he continued, indicating at Alec, “is about half my wereform size. Do not force me to shift. I cannot promise to maintain the self-control to not kill you instantly.”

Q purred happily, nuzzling Bond’s hand with his minute head, and all but  _smirking_  at the squealing pig at Bond’s feet.

“ _Go_ ,” Bond roared – literally roared.

The pig and snake scattered. The pit bull made pathetic noises, still trapped in Alec’s mouth. “Alec, drop him,” Bond said sternly.

With a reluctant eye roll, Alec did so. The pit bull scampered off very damn fast.

Bond kissed the top of Q’s head gently. “Nobody hurts my mate,” he murmured.

Alec gave a disparaging, sickened-sounding growl. “Nobody asked you, you oversized rodent,” Bond told him sharply, with another grin, and Alec  _snarled._  “Later. Let’s get Q home first?”

Mercifully, Alec agreed; Bond carefully tucked Q close to his chest, guarding his kitten’s eyes from the height and movement of the world. Alec picked up Q’s messenger bag in his jaws, leading the way, heading back to Q’s flat while the kitten purred contently against Bond.

\---

Q had been retrieved after several days. By that stage, he was a physical wreck; he shifted desperately, instinctively, trying to find a form that could survive what they were doing to him and finding neither very helpful.

Bond had kicked in doors, ripped heads off – quite literally, at one stage – before finding the minute kitten form of his partner. Too thin, fur matted with blood, mewing pathetically before shifting back to human form through pure panic, back again, never settling.

“Q, it’s alright,” Bond coaxed, holding out a hand, shifting back into human form while 002 burst into the room, all teeth and ferocity before spotting Q.

Bright emerald eyes met his for a moment, before Q regressed back into feline form. He mewed softly, curled up tightly in the far corner of the room.

002 padded forward a couple of steps, and gently licked the top of Q’s head; she wrinkled her nose at the taste of blood, but continued, lightly cleaning the kitten she could probably swallow whole if she so chose.

Q accidently shifted back into human form, and looked directly at Bond. “I can’t control it,” he whimpered, looking frightened, hand and eloquent fingers stroking gratefully down 002’s nose. “Injuries are superficial, just… just get me out, James, _please_.”

Bond moved forward, scooping Q into a fireman’s lift; with a small yelp, Q shifted straight back into kitten format. He was a  _lot_  easier to transport while the size of Bond’s palm; Bond moved as fast as possible, alarmed by the bony skeleton and patches of missing fur. “You’re alright,” Bond soothed gently, praying Q could stay in wereform until they were at least out of the building.

Of course, he didn’t. Bond nearly toppled over, sheer force of will keeping him upright. “Sorry,” Q mumbled, voice raw. “I’m trying…”

“It’ll be easier to treat you in human form,” Bond warned; Q nodded, adhering himself to Bond as the rest of the pack began congregating. They all growled, hissed, at the sight of their smallest and most vulnerable member in such a state; 008, who had some medical background, shifted to have a look at them while they walked.

He would be fine, after a while.

When Medical eventually let him go, Q refused to be parted from his pack. They refused to be parted from him, either; M had the unfortunate problem of the  _entirety_  of the double-oh pack (barring 001, who had been in deep cover for over a month in Zimbabwe) deciding to take an impromptu holiday while Q was recovering.

Q just slept, a tiny and rather battered kitten, in Bond’s arms. Everybody stayed in wereform, the more comfortable way of being in a pack; Q breathed in their scent, nuzzled between Bond’s paws, and let himself be looked after.

\---

The double-ohs kept Q very close, from thereon in. Q abruptly had a non-stop security detail; at least one double-oh was around him, at all possible times. Actually, at some _im_ possible times too; agents appeared out of nowhere, ambling along the road in a pseudo-West Side Story formation.

Only as large predatory animals, without the clicking and dancing.

Q quite liked it. Packs were  _supposed_  to be constant fixtures, a form of absolute physical and emotional security. With his actual partner out of the country half the time, he depended ever further on the rest of his pack to give him necessary support.

They all needed one another, and were unapologetic about that fact.

M was getting used to walking in, to find his Quartermaster absentmindedly stroking a cheetah, and unperturbed by the fact. “For god’s sake Q, you’re a  _kitten_ ,” he said exasperatedly.

“I’m  _not_ ,” Q contested, a little hotly. “I’m a small cat. It’s a small breed. Not a kitten.”

“Either way,” M said heavily, looking at 005’s sleeping form. “It’s not… exactly correct, is it?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “They’re feline,” he pointed out, a little smugly. “For the most part. Anyway, it doesn’t exactly fall in your remit. 005 is off duty, my work is consistently exemplary, and without support I assure you that my recent stint in Iraq would have been a far further-reaching event. I assure you, we are all quite alright.”

Sensing that the discussion would go no further, M stalked out of the room.

From behind his desk, Bond – who had shifted in the middle of M’s speech, now lying flat on the floor in human form, hiding from view – grinned. “Well,” he said lightly, looking up at his Quartermaster. “That could have been worse.”

“Everybody thinks it’s odd,” Q pointed out, sighing as he returned to intermittent strings of typed characters. “I’m past the point of caring. I think I’m probably more fortunate than most, let’s be honest.”

He tilted sideways, fingers just brushing Bond’s forehead; Bond obediently shifted, Q smiling as his fingers tangled in the rich, amber and ochre mane. “You’re beautiful, even like this,” he murmured; 005 made a repulsed sound, and abruptly shifted into human form.

“Guys, not when I’m  _right there_ ,” she whined, dusting herself down; Bond and Q were accused – quite often, and always very rightly – of having few boundaries physically when around their pack.

Which was excellent, until a kitten and a lion started to nuzzle quite excitably in the middle of the office, or  _god forbid_ , they both shifted into human form halfway and everybody saw  _far_  too much of absolutely everything. Intimacy would only stretch so far, and the sexual intimacy was strictly between partners. Mostly.

005 had seen far too much already. She disappeared quickly, Bond letting out a short, roaring laugh. “Alone at last,” he purred, nose and tongue swiping eloquently across Q’s throat.

Q smiled, and gently nuzzled forward, resting his head on Bond’s shoulder. “Yes,” he sighed, and let Bond drown him.


	99. The Mafia Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love you and your work. I can read it forever, tbqh. I have a prompt that I’d like to see: Q is a young and successful mafia head, and bond is his hired muscle which developes in to more…? – anon

Q was known only as Q. Nobody attached other monikers to him, and if they tried, they tended to be found dead relatively quickly. Many people had never even met the man, but everybody knew of him.

Bond had been hired as personal protection, his own reputation preceding him; he had been working on his own, freelance basis for years. He had been specifically contacted by Q, on a professional basis, and was now on his way to meet the man who controlled most of a criminal empire.

His first impression was that Q was ridiculously young for the industry. Delicately beautiful, wholly not what Bond had expected; he was used to the mafia lot being relatively overweight, usually middle-aged men with more power than intelligence. Looking at Q, it was easy to see how he had risen so far and so fast.

“You must be James Bond,” the boy said lightly, extending a hand. His accent was crisp and perfect, very English, very unusually perfect. Everything about the boy – man – was unusual.

Bond smiled, met the handshake easily, still more than a little entranced. “Indeed. Q?”

“Quite,” the man returned, nodding, looking over Bond and seeming rather pleased by what he found. “So. You will be required on a personal bodyguard basis. Believe me when I say my payment offers will outstrip anybody who has formerly contracted you. Equally, should you attempt to double-cross me or anything of the sort, you will be dead very shortly afterwards.”

A polite nod. “Understood. I see no reason that I would wish to hire myself out to any further servicemen after this arrangement,” Bond explained; if the money was good, and regular, it was worth staying. Not to mention that Q was anomalous enough to make the entire job more interesting. Bond had been on a series of dull contracts, and really, something more interesting was rather welcome.

“Well then,” Q said politely. “I have an engagement this afternoon that I will require you present for. Arms surreptitious for this one, it would not do to cause hostilities too early. I may or may not require an assassination shortly afterwards.”

Bond’s smile broadened by millimetres; the boy was pragmatic, businesslike, had no interest in Bond’s own feelings towards the subject. Bond was the hired help, and happy to be so. “I’m assuming discrete. Do you need the cleanup?”

A spark of interest; good. Bond was asking the right questions, being precisely what was required in that moment. The green turned a little more electric. “No cleanup, I have people for that,” he noted. “Duly noted, however. No, I want you at my side, if you would.”

Bond nodded gracefully, an incline, a demonstration of subservience to a higher authority. “It would be my pleasure,” he purred, entirely captured by the fire burning in the back of those extraordinary, beautiful eyes.

\---

Q was one of the most confusing men Bond had ever met. Brilliant, cold and beautifully detached, he could order the death of half of Europe without batting an eyelid. And yet the smallest thing could make him stop and  _stare;_ sunsets, streets, things would catch his eyes and Bond would see the green soften for a few seconds, the steeliness vanishing for a few seconds. Bond knew better than to comment, he did after all value his own life.

“I don’t make a habit of sleeping with the help,” Q commented, as Bond stood by him, watching his work.

Bond glanced at him, raised an eyebrow. “Excellent ethos, in general,” he returned, deadpan. “It need not be habitual.”

Lying seemed a potentially lethal mistake; Q evidently had some idea of Bond’s interest, and honestly, Bond was not always subtle. Attraction wasn’t something that usually  _needed_  to be lied about; Bond would never have acted upon his feelings, and was professional enough to really not require a conversation on the matter.

“For you, I was tempted to make an exception,” Q informed him, in a business-like manner.

“Was?” Bond asked, curiously.

“Indeed. So – why should I? Sell yourself to me,” Q instructed, leaning back from his desk and looking Bond in the face.

Bond couldn’t help a small smile. This, he could manage. “You find me aesthetically attractive. I’m very good in bed. I have some interest in romanticism, but limited, and only in strictly free time. As you’re aware, I’m an excellent bodyguard, and having any sexual relationship with a client certainly improves the quality; I’ll have a more intimate knowledge, no pun intended, of your physical weaknesses. Overall, I don’t see that it would detract in the slightest, and could be potentially beneficial.”

Q nodded, scanning him with a disconcerting gaze that would have rattled a weaker man. Bond took it stoically, allowing Q to give him the once over. Q stood, abruptly, vacating his chair and stepping to the side of his desk.

“Sit down,” Q instructed, Bond pausing. It was a test. He did so without another word. Q looked down at him and nodded once. Apparently he had passed.

“Your loyalty has been proven on multiple occasions. Your points are all valid,” Q agreed, walking behind Bond and placing a slim hand around his neck. It was tight, but not choking – not yet. “Do you trust me, Bond?” he asked, standing directly behind him.

Bond took a breath, quelling the instinct. “No,” he said, very honestly; the fingers tightened a fraction, and Bond could  _feel_  Q’s smile.

“Intelligent precaution,” Q agreed, and tipped Bond’s head back in a simple, easy motion; Q continued to scan him, his doubt obvious only through how long it was taking him to make the decision. Bond stared directly back, blood coursing harder than he knew possible, set as he waited for  _something_.

Abruptly, Q grinned. In a handful of almost childishly playful movements, he scooted the items on his desk backwards, hopping onto the edge; his feet planted on the arms of Bond’s chair, groin level with Bond’s face.

“Impress me,” he purred.

Bond’s eyes turned  _black_  for the oddest, most gorgeous of moments, and he was in motion.

\---

 


	100. The Naval Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naval AU? I’m not sure about Royal Naval pecking order but I really want Bond becoming irritated with other commanders/captains who try to steal his best quartermaster/mechanic from him. Everyone knows that Q’s the best in the business so they’re constantly trying to woo him away from Bond’s ship. Q’s oblivious because he has a secret crush on Bond and would never leave. Thanks! - runemarks

The young mechanic snapped to attention, watching Bond with his eyes bright and near-sparkling, a slight smile in the corners of his mouth. “Yet another ship has expressed an interest in you,” he informed Q; the young man went by an initial, preferring anonymity to his true name.

“How nice for them,” Q replied; cheeky, but he and Bond had an understanding. Bond allowed him leeway, and Q remained with him – the best mechanic, the best quartermaster, anybody could wish for. He was renowned across the Navy.

Bond was a damn good commander, but there were ships with potentially better resources, better opportunities. Q could have skipped through the various Navy ships before settling somewhere, if he wished – but instead, he resolutely stayed with Bond.

Nobody quite knew why, but Bond was hardly about to argue. He was efficient, inspired, had an excellent sense of humour, and Bond considered him truly beautiful.

Q smiled a slightly sideways smile at Bond once in a while, a tentative thing, playful and deferential. Bond would smirk back, and there was a spark of something indiscernible that Bond was immensely fond of.

“I assume you have no interest?” Bond continued, green eyes watching him carefully.

A short, curious laugh. “When have I ever?” he asked rhetorically; Bond had presented him dutifully with data on every ship, given him the option. The last thing he wanted was to be caught withholding information from a creature like Q.

Bond shrugged slightly. “It seemed fair to offer,” he murmured carefully. “You have no reason to remain so dedicated here; a man of your talents…”

“… I like it here,” Q cut in, with an almost-urgency. “I have my reasons. I’m certain you can understand that? There’s always… a reason to stay, as it were, and I found it. My reason. And that’s fine, I mean… I’m happy, here. If you’ll have me.”

“I would be an idiot to allow you to leave, if I could avoid it,” Bond commented wryly. “Thank you, Q.”

Q’s face brightened in a soft, sweet smile. “My pleasure,” he replied lightly, dipping his head in respect.

He lingered, for a moment. He had not been formally dismissed, but there was nothing further to say, nothing to be done; he waited, watching over Bond like he was inches from speaking and couldn’t quite find the words, teetered on the edge of a breath. “Evening, Q,” Bond said, without any harshness, all gentility and elegance.

“Evening,” he replied, looking near enough disappointed.

Bond’s eyebrows narrowed as he walked away.

\---

With every day that passed, it was looking less likely that Q could be enticed to stay on Bond’s ship. Everybody knew it; Q deserved better, needed a ship that would test his abilities and keep him working up the ranks. He would stagnate here, as he was, and it would be so much kinder to release him.

The problem was that Q simply refused to go. As his reputation grew, better and better ships were seeking him out – and for every one, Q politely but firmly refused, deigning to stay with Bond.

Something was keeping him stranded, kept in stasis. “This is your career,” Bond pointed out to Q, who simply smiled that enigmatic smile.  _I found my reason._

Q looked uncomfortable for a brief moment, twitching as though seeking an exit, as though waiting for something to happen. Every time. It happened every time. Q would wait on a knife’s edge, and Bond would prompt his exit, and they would wait until the next time.

“I’m your reason,” Bond said instead.

To his irritation, his satisfaction, Q grinned. “Yes,” Q replied, without hesitation. “You’ve always been. And I’m not asking you anything, other than to let me stay on your ship. I don’t expect you to reciprocate or treat me different, I really don’t…”

Bond glanced over the young mechanic. He simply stood there, letting Bond accept or reject him, whatever he chose. He had Q in the palm of his hand.

The silence spread.

The light in Q’s eyes died back a little.

Bond took a handful of confident steps forward, and tugged Q into a kiss. The younger man half-flailed as his balance was knocked a little, before re-stabilising, returning the kiss with all the passion at his disposal. “Don’t make me leave,” Q pleaded into Bond’s mouth, hot and wet and beautiful. “Keep me,  _Commander_. James.  _Please_.”

Q gasped as Bond bit his lower lip, making him breathe too harshly, whimpering. “And if I take you, then what?” Bond growled, pulling the younger man away from him. “Will you stay? Even if you could be everything, even if…”

“ _Yes_ ,” Q breathed at him, desperate and wanting and sad. “Please, James. I don’t  _want_ anything else. Just you. You.”

Bond could have laughed. Q was beautiful. Perfect and beautiful and – apparently – _his_.


	101. The Pirate!Bond Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Pirate 00Q. Bond is a notorious pirate captain who kidnaps the son of the governor, Quentin, for ransom. I would love for Bond to fall for/lust for Q, even better if you throw some dub/con in there too. – anon

Q was thrown onto the deck, bound hands splayed in front of him, picking himself up as best he could. Everybody was crowded, laughing, mocking; a hand laced in his hair, wrenching him painfully up to standing. “Stand straight,” a voice growled. “You need to greet the captain.”

In the dark, Q hadn’t been able to see the ship properly; this would be the moment of truth. From the far side of the ship, a man strode into view, and Q swore eloquently.

Everybody cackled with laughter, knocking Q side to side as they bustled him closer, bodies too close, Q’s jaw clenching with honest fear. “Bond. James Bond,” the man purred, extending a hand.

Q raised an eyebrow, and indicated his bound hands. “Untie him, gentlemen,” Bond said sharply. “He’s our guest.”

“Guest?” Q asked sarcastically. “I’m presumably not allowed to leave, which somewhat contradicts the idea of a ‘guest’, yes?”

Pain exploded over the side of Q’s face as he was slapped; his body snapped to one side, pulled up sharply again. A hand caressed the side of his face over the aching skin, hot and flushed with anger, some shame, humiliation at being hit in front of a collection of damned  _pirates_.

Bond pulled him forward, hand on his upper arm. There was no real point in fighting, or running; Q had no chance of getting on a rowboat without help so really, it was most sensible to just wait it out for somebody to rescue or pay his ransom. Bond was relatively renowned for not killing his hostages, and – within pirate circles, anyway – being consistent in his negotiations.

In the meantime, it remained to be seen how long it would take for said ransom to be paid.

Bond settled Q in a chair, bound his wrists to the arm of said chair, and sat himself down opposite. “Q, isn’t it?” he asked casually.

Q raised an eyebrow. “How could you know that?” he asked slowly. “Everybody calls me Q back home, but your type…”

For a moment, Bond looked almost offended. “My crew, our ethos, are different from most pirates,” he purred, voice low. “I did my research before deciding to acquire you, Q.”

Quickly, Q was beginning to feel a little unnerved. “How much research, exactly?” he asked, throat dry. “You’re a  _pirate_. I’m just a tactical acquisition, surely, and…”

“Enough,” Bond said calmly, raising a hand, debonair smile painted over his face. “I have no desire to harm you, for the record. If you cross me in any sense, I will punish you accordingly – but otherwise, I would like you to consider this ship somewhere you need not fear.”

There was some tone, something, that Q didn’t quite recognise, and certainly didn’t like entirely. Some implication that he had no idea what to do with quite yet, not until he properly understood.

“ _Captain_.”

Bond glanced up, blue eyes sparklingly. “Do excuse me,” he smiled back at Q, glancing over his face as a predator might. “I would untie you, but until I’m certain you will not try anything stupid, I will keep you as you are.”

Q nodded slightly, relaxing into his chair.

He didn’t expect calloused fingers to tease under his chin, lift his head, press a kiss onto his lips; Q wrenched himself back with sheer alarm, almost toppling the chair over.

Bond’s laughter echoed around the cabin long after he had gone.

\---

 

Q’s quarters were beyond anything he would have hoped for, as a hostage. True, it was basically a cupboard, but it was just off the captain’s suite and there was enough space for a bed and a small bookshelf. Bond had even been kind enough to furnish it from his personal library; Q had chuckled to see ‘The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing’ sat among the covers.

He was deeply immersed in its pages when the door opened. Bond walked in, dressed as he had been the previous day (did he own anything other than flouncy white shirts and black trousers?) and sat on the edge of the bed next to Q.

Since the brief nod towards physical attraction from their first meeting, Bond had been surprisingly  _noble_ , for a pirate. True to his word, there was nothing to fear except atrophying boredom, given that he wasn’t technically allowed out of his quarters; he had wound up exploring Bond’s locked cabin, just for want of anything better to do, and found it curiously Spartan. Thus, books.

“There seems to be no sign of your ransom,” he said, in a low voice, threatening anger.

Q felt tension immediately thrum through his spine. “It’ll come,” he murmured, instinctively backing further up the bed. He had heard what pirates would do to speed along ransoms, bits of people arriving on shore, bloodied, or they would just be outright killed and  _really_ , that just didn’t seem fair.

“No it won’t,” Bond shrugged and Q felt his blood run cold. His body seized up  _how did he know?_  “At least, not until your father can get something together.”

“How, wait, no  _why_  would you take me, if you knew?” Q asked slowly, as Bond sat next to him on the bed.

“That your father is one of the poorest governors on the entire Eastern coast?” Bond chuckled, as Q nodded. “He loves you dearly. He will do  _anything_ to get that money. It just means I get a little… longer with you.”

Q blinked, the tension refusing to drain. He was putting two and two together, and arriving at a relatively unpopular conclusion. “Why?” he asked instead, quietly; Bond’s eyes were very blue, very kind. He had done nothing of harm, nothing to suggest that violence was coiling, snakelike, under the surface. He had been kidnapped by a pirate who was defying expectations with every passing moment.

Bond didn’t answer. “Your father will receive your bloodied shirt imminently,” he warned, looking almost amused at the concept, while Q remained very steadily frozen in place. “The blood is from a goat, before you panic again. I felt it kinder to warn you.”

“He’s not exactly the youngest man!” Q objected, as Bond held out a hand for the shirt. “The shock…”

“He will be fine,” Bond assured him, calm demeanour so very hard to contradict. “Your shirt, please.”

Q unbuttoned the shirt swiftly, long fingers popping open each one as Bond looked away. Modesty? It was getting more than a little strange. When Q removed it completely, the captain looked over at him and for a moment Q saw a little crack in the gentleman, a flash in the eyes as he looked over Q’s pale skin.

“You don’t get out in the sun much, lad?” Bond asked, mask firmly back on as Q blushed. That  _look_  it had been more than simple curiosity, it was appreciation, admiration. It was more than a little hungry.

“My skin… I go so red. I don’t really…” Q burbled, as Bond located a new shirt and handed it over.

Q shrugged it on, the light material immediately swamping him. “A little large on you, but should do the job,” Bond mused, still looking, watching.

For an odd moment, Q looked back, and was almost breathless; the light hit Bond perfectly through a porthole, and he was  _beautiful_.

The moment died, and Q curled against the back of the bed, away from Bond and piracy and absurdities, delving back into his book and blushing ferociously at his own thoughts until Bond disappeared again.

\---

Q rarely had any interaction with any of the crew beside the Captain himself. Occasionally —-someone would come in with food, or to give him a clean bedpan. They were generally unpleasant, though none had been actively cruel.

On one such occasion Q was once again reading, when a man entered. He was slightly younger than Bond, though it was impossible to determine any real age; Q’s eyes narrowed a little as he glanced over Q, standing with no apparent purpose. “Can I help you?” Q asked, with a dash of understandable sarcasm.

The intention became very abruptly apparent, as the man darted forward, knocking the book out of Q’s hands and closing one hand around his wrist, other over his mouth.

Q panicked. Everything he had ever feared about pirates, about how he would be treated on Bond’s ship, was being proved. He had honestly believed Bond better than that, better than sending some bloody  _lackey_  to do it for him, and Q fought with everything he had, screaming and trying to bite and kicking out as his trousers were tugged at, ripped.

Everything moved very, very fast. There was suddenly no weight pinning him down, the hand gone from his mouth. Q  _screamed_ , at a truly impressive volume, lashing out at anything he could see that was either moving, or solid.

He continued to thrash, even as he was pinned again, arms brought to his chest and wrapped in a massive bear hug, everything in him buckling with sheer terror and _anger_ , very established and very lethal anger.

It took a moment or two to realise that nothing more was happening. He was very much unable to move, but nothing else was happening. His captor was, in fact, completely still.

The original man, actually, was lying in the doorway. There was blood  _everywhere_.

Q felt himself go abruptly dizzy, all force draining from his limbs. “I’m sorry,” a low voice told him, in his ear, as Q literally felt himself start to hyperventilate. His body was shaking, trembling with shock and fear as the man holding him started to rock slightly.

“What, what…” Q was repeating, unable to comprehend what had happened. The jaw pressed against him was stubbly, brushing against him with each movement. Q decided to focus on that, let his attention divert from the blood currently seeping into the floorboards, absentmindedly hoping it didn’t reach his book. He had been enjoying it, actually.

Q’s body continued to relax, heartbeat slowing, true calm replacing the acquired stillness that panic could induce. “Fuck,” he managed softly, very softly. It was, to the best of his knowledge, the first time he had ever used the word; he was the governor’s son, it wouldn’t have done to be caught using filthy language. Q realised, dimly, that he didn’t care. “ _Fuck_.”

“I am sorry,” the voice behind him repeated, and Q whimpered slightly, recognising Bond. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Q replied, throat closed. “I’m just… fuck _fuck_ fuck…”

Bond laughed, an oddly comforting sound, as Q continued to stubbornly swear, again and again. “Glad to see we have been expanding your vocabulary,” he commented dryly as Q grasped at his arm. Q laughed then too, a rather broken sound as Bond buried his nose into Q’s hair.

“Knew them before, actually,” Q told him.

Bond smirked, gently loosing his arms from around Q’s body, letting him slump a little. “They suit you,” he soothed, pulling a sheet over Q’s form. “Do you need anything, or…?”

“Stay?” Q asked, almost inaudibly, sounding ashamed by the admission. “I’m… I…”

Bond didn’t say a word. He returned his arms to circling Q, careful and warm and solid and safe, and Q fell asleep on him.

\---

It had become a habit, Bond sleeping next to him. For his own protection, it was insisted, but Q had started to wonder whether he would be able to sleep without the man ever again. It was wonderfully calming to feel strong arms on him, to hear the other’s heartbeat; after a while, Q began to feel the Captain’s presence not merely necessary, or protective, but  _wanted_. A level that transcended logic, annoyingly enough, and moved into the realms of simply wanting the man close. Wanting to keep him close, and never allow him away again.

A treacherous part of Q’s mind dreamt, as he had when he was a very young boy, of a life on the seas. Adventure and danger and – now he was older, understood better – love.

Q had always seen the sea as something so very distant. At his doorstep, but never to truly be touched, never  _lived in_. But Bond knew the sea, he truly did live for it. He knew when to tie down the ship for a storm, and when to pull the sail for the wind. Bond could cut through the waves in a way that made Q’s heart soar, and Q would stand on deck, Bond’s arm around his waist as he steered, the ship gliding easily through the water. Wind would whip through Q’s hair and, in that second, he wanted nothing more than to remain there forever.

When the door opened, Q knew, and his heart sank. “Oh god,” he breathed. “They paid.”

Bond simply nodded curtly. “We’re heading closer to shore. You will be placed in a rowboat, and we’ll leave you with enough supplies to reach shore.”

"Why not with another ship?" Q asked softly.

 "Can’t risk it," Bond told him. "No one else around," Q looked at him, unable to think of what to say.

"How long do we have?" he asked eventually, suppressing the instinct to reach out for Bond’s hand.

"An hour perhaps," Bond told him. "Preparations are being made."

Q should have been ecstatic, finally freed from a pirate ship, from being a hostage. “I don’t…” Q found himself saying, unable to finish. “James,” he managed.

In an instant, the Captain was kissing him, half lifting him off his feet as his lips met Q’s own.  It was warm and safe and bittersweet as Q kissed back, desperate and needing, body moulding inwards, breathing frantically. “I don’t want to go back,” he breathed. “James, let me stay. Join your ship. I’m not useful for much, but I could be a translator or something, I could…”

Bond pulled back, looking over Q carefully. “Are you certain?”

"Yes," Q answered, "Oh  _god_ , yes,” and he was kissing Bond again, feeling the man’s body against him, responding, and it was perfect and brilliant and the ship lurched in the water and Q felt everything he had ever wanted begin to crystallise in an instant. “Send the money back, and, let me send a note…”

"Well, if you can write you are already over qualified for piracy, and, for the record, we’re not returning the money," Bond told him; Q looked horribly aggrieved, for a moment. " _Pirate_ ,” he pointed out emphatically. “By all means write an explanatory letter, or we’ll just tell him you died of scurvy. Either way. It’s a lot of money.”

"I’ll have to send them my share of the booty then, won’t I," Q smirked, as Bond pulled him close.

"Loot, Q. Booty is something I enjoy plundering for an entirely different reason," Bond murmured, squeezing Q’s arse and making the young man blush.

"Well,” he murmured, with intentional sensuality. “At least I’ll be useful…"


	102. The Homophobic Family Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi.. your stories are amazing.. Not sure if you have done this yet but its kinda personal to me. Could you have Bond/Q in a loving relationship and Q’s family finding out about it not knowing their son was gay and go all homophobic on him, being verbally abusive and somewhat physically threatening and Bond walking in on it after coming off a really hard and dark mission and going all Bond on his family. to protect his precious Q. if he has to beat some ass that would be fab. – anon

The door opened, and Bond was greeted by a teenage girl. She glanced him up and down, looking a little impressed. “Erm. You must be Q’s…” she trailed off, apparently uncertain of what in the hell to call him. “Fuck. I, erm. You’d better come in.”

Bond narrowed his eyes slightly at her evident discomfort, not quite sure where it was aimed, feeling altogether confused. The girl led him down the corridor tentatively, glancing back at him with something like an apology, as voices filtered through, interspersed with very occasional, muffled thumps.

“… inviting somebody like that into our house, it’s…”

“… I’m sorry, I just…”

“… you little shit, thought we’d beaten this out of you years ago…”

“… don’t you ever think about anybody other than yourself? What if we don’t want to be involved with those kind of people, it’s selfish of you to…”

“… disgusting, just disgusting…”

The teenager in the hallway looked a little tired, shifting awkwardly. “Erm…” she tried again; by that stage, Bond had heard quite enough. More specifically, he had heard – after one of the thumps – a gasp for breath that Bond knew to be unmistakeable, had heard once too many times in his life.

Bond was brought up in a family, in a generation, of people who were not always open-minded about homosexuality. Nothing about the scene was surprising, not in the pure sense of the word.

It was wholly, horribly shocking.

Q was propped up in the corner of the room, upright, but breathing sporadically. A larger man, presumably his father, strode around the open space behind the couch, visibly livid, face ruddy with anger. Q’s mother, meanwhile – a pinched, pale woman whom Q strongly resembled – sat pinching the bridge of her nose, almost in tears at her son’s behaviour and firing verbal bullets while her husband, by the look of things, gave his son a beating.

The most distressing aspect was that Q could fight back. Bond had seen him before; not the best of fighters, but certainly adept enough to stop somebody of his father’s size occasionally wheeling round and hitting him. Q remained stranded in the corner like a lost child, and Bond couldn’t help but wonder whether this had occurred before.

The mother immediately fixed a sycophantic, false smile on her face. “You must be James,” she said, most ingratiatingly, pointedly not extending a hand to shake. “We’ve heard all about you.”

The father didn’t even try to make an effort. He turned on Q, instead. “You couldn’t even try for something less of a fucking stereotype?” he railed. “Needed a strong man, did you? Fucking insulting, that’s what it is…”

Q looked terrifyingly, horribly broken. Bond could find no other word for it. He had the look of somebody who was in shock, somebody whose mind had simply stopped connecting, just to protect him from the onslaught. “James, you should go,” he said, without looking up. Nobody moved. “Please, just go.”

Bond had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Q had warned that his family may not be very receptive, but wanted Bond to meet them because they honestlymattered. Q was family-centric, had been unable to avoid the questions, and had gone ahead to essentially warn them before Bond arrived; and this had unravelled, somehow.

There was no option to leave him, not like this. The father puffed like a train, red and angry and hollering; Bond just ignored him, pushing past to reach Q.

Q all but collapsed when Bond came closer, sliding down the wall. “Are you alright?” Bond asked, voice low, voice of reason. “Q, look at me,” he coaxed, cupping his lover’s face, immensely gentle while Q started to very softly cry, almost unnoticeable.

“Get the fuck away from my son…”

Bond stood, wheeled around, and pinned the man to the wall by his throat. He glanced between the now-squeaking mother, the ruddy father, the teenage girl standing stupidly to one side, wordless.

“Don’t,” Q pleaded quietly from behind, making Bond heart sink a little; Q still cared, far too much. Bond would have willingly destroyed the lot of them, in his formidable double-oh style; but Q had asked. This was Q’s decision.

Bond met the eyes of the man he had pinned, angrier than he could recall ever being. “Touch him again, and I will destroy you,” he promised, voice low, entire physically screaming that he could, and indeed would.

Q shifted behind him, and his breath caught; Bond dropped his father, turned back to Q. Honestly, the younger man was barely in a state to stand up on his own; Bond hooked him up, arm around his waist to support him.

In absolute silence, Bond helped his partner out of the building.

“Thank you,” Q said quietly, raspingly. “I love them, and it’s not… it’s…”

Bond remained very still, and simply shook his head. He could not bear to listen to it, not yet. Maybe later, when Q was stronger and Bond had calmed, they would talk more, work out what to do next.

For now, Bond kissed Q very gently, a mere brush, and put the car in gear.

\---

There was a tenseness to Q’s posture, some indeterminate hardness that Bond didn’t quite recognise from him.

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Q started unexpectedly, without looking around, without even _moving_. “if it wasn’t so  _insidious_. My dad is… it’s unpleasant, yes, but it all heals and doesn’t scar so… yes. It’s the little things, it’s always the little things.”

Q turned the screen around, revealing an email; he had refused to speak to his family much on the phone, and certainly not in person, since their attacks the previous week. Instead, his mother had acted as voice of reason, and a handful of emails were exchanged.

Nobody mentioned what had happened. Nobody mentioned Bond. The silence on both fronts was deafening, and emphatic.

A lot was discussed about Q’s little sister’s boyfriend, and how Q needed to find somebody to look after him  _properly_ , and how was Charlotte (Q’s girlfriend for several months, a while ago) doing, and if Q wanted to come over for a  _family_  dinner at some stage he would be very welcome.

“I know them well enough to read between the lines,” Q supplied numbly. “I’m so  _used_ to this. It never stops. When I first discussed… when I tried to tell them, they had the outright attack, and then every  _fucking_  moment after was the gentle, subliminal little words. It’s odd, it’s only now I’m more detached that I can really see it properly.”

Bond sighed, feeling very tired, very old, and very helpless. There was nothing he could do. Q adored his family, always had done, and there was nothing Bond could feasibly do to make it better, or make the deadness go from behind Q’s eyes.

Instead, he carefully reached out for his lover. Q twitched under his hands, inches away from a flinch, and it was difficult to know what in the hell to do. “It’s stupid,” he muttered softly. “It’s nothing big. They’re not being… outright cruel, or… it’s just, after over a decade of snide comments, it begins to get wearing.”

To Bond’s surprise, Q essentially tilted sideways unexpectedly, pouring himself into Bond’s lap with almost no control or dexterity. He simply lay, not really making any conscious movements, eyes vaguely focusing on the far wall while Bond enveloped him, wrapped him in warmth as though he could protect Q, somehow. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bond returned instantly.

Q’s mouth twitched faintly, a shadow of a smile. “Thank you. I’m just so tired of this, you know? After a certain point, it’s just  _tiring_ , trying to be… trying, just, trying. They’d probably love you if you didn’t have a penis, that’s the bloody galling thing, and I just  _hate_  this, I’m not a bloody teenager any more and I  _know_  this is bullshit, I just… fuck.”

After that, Q was just quiet. He cried in silence, and Bond pretended not to notice.

Abruptly, he sat up, inhaling like he was surfacing from deep underwater. “Alright. Can’t be like this all day,” he said quickly, escaping from the circle of Bond’s arms, propelling forward towards his computer with the light half-back, everything swallowed, placed somewhere in the back of his mind to be examined at a later date, maybe.

Maybe not.

“Are you alright on your own?” Bond asked, as Q dived into work.

He glanced up, smiled lopsidedly, cheeky. “Aren’t I always?” he asked, with a touch of mockery, and glanced back to his screen. “Thank you, James.”

Bond kissed the top of his head gently, walked away.

It took a while for him to realise Q had not exactly answered his question.


	103. The Pagan God Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pagan god!bond au? Q almost drowned when he was little but woke up returned to shore after a storm. 15 years later and near constant storms and meager fishing have led to the townspeople to believe that the sea god who saved him wants Q back. They drug Q and drop him off in the sacred grotto so the god can have his prize back. The god is very pleased with his gift and is content to dote on his extremely reluctant chosen, whether Q wants to be doted on or not. – anon

Q was having a spectacularly bad day.

Storms had destroyed most of his home, first of all. That was something of a constant; while irritating, storms wrecked  _everything_  in his village. This time, the storm had pretty much taken the entire roof off his house, despite it having been rebuilt only a handful of months ago.

Being drugged was not a pleasant experience. Being drugged by one’s best friend, with parents complicit, was even less pleasant.

The sea god James Bond  _was_  pleasant, but in the context, Q felt he had the right to be annoyed.

“You are truly a beautiful creature,” Bond crooned, stroking a finger down Q’s face, observing the pale skin and bright green eyes. He was the only dark haired person in the village who had such eyes, stunning in their surprise. It had always been Q’s private view that his eyes had been the same brown as his parents, until the god had saved him. Now they echoed the oceans that adored him.

“Thank you,” Q replied, not quite yet ready to anger a god. “Might I ask why I am here?”

Bond smiled benevolently. “You should have been mine,” he purred benevolently. “You came close, and I have never forgotten you. You are Q, yes?”

Q’s eyes narrowed slightly; he had, at no stage, mentioned his name. But then, Bond was a god, so it made some sense.

“Yes,” he confirmed, giving nothing else away. Bond began to circle him, observing his lithe body.

Q felt a finger draw a line from the base of his spine to the top, sending shudders through his body.  “You are sixteen? Correct?” Bond asked, drawing back from the boy.

A small nod, wary and careful. “I…”

Bond placed a single finger over Q’s lips, the beautiful boy silent and waiting, anxious in a way that spoke of utter strength. “You will be more treasured than any other thing, on land or sea,” he murmured, tracing his light skin. “The most prized creature imaginable.”

“That… thank you, I mean – I am very flattered by your offer,” Q began, breathing deeply. He might be about to do the stupidest thing in his life. “But really, I just want to go home.”

“This is your home now,” Bond told him dismissively, a touch irritated and almost _amused_  by Q’s presumption. “You are of marrying age; I see no reason for you to refuse me.”

“Marrying?” Q gaped, the god looking eerily calm before him. “I do not wish to sound ungrateful, but I have no desire to marry you. I don’t know you.”

Bond blinked. “I am offering you  _immortality_.”

Q raised an eyebrow straight back. “Good for you,” he returned.

An impasse; the god seemed utterly bemused, and Q was more scared than he had ever been in his life.

They remained in stereo silence for a number of minutes.

“I…It had not occurred to me that you would refuse…” Bond trailed off eventually, confused, beginning to get angry, aware that anger would only scare away the delightful being in front of him. “I… “

Another minute or two of wary silence.

“You… _humans_. You like to visit places to eat? Food? Drink? Scenery?”

Q shrugged. “It’s a nice place to start,” he said, with light flippancy.

Bond smirked, blue eyes bright. “Excellent. I know a place you may enjoy. Come with me.”

Honestly, Q didn’t have an option; Bond grabbed his wrist, and disappeared them both into the water.

\---

Bond was kind enough, Q mused, as they sat upon what appeared to be the tallest rock in the land. He hand-brought Q berries, mushrooms, nuts – all served with a strange dark liquid that made his head feel oddly light. Like ale, perhaps, but sweeter.

They were sat together, the god and the boy, Bond pulling Q close as they watched the seas below them. “Am I able to return home?” Q asked quietly, after a while. It was the most immediate question; while this was lovely, Q had planned out something of a life in the real world, and this did not precisely fit in.

The god did not answer for a moment, instead pressing a kiss against Q’s neck. “No,” he murmured, after a moment.

Q felt his body begin to freeze, despite the warm temperatures; he took a breath, steadying his nerve. “You can’t just _keep_  me,” he said slowly, reasonably, as calm he could. “I don’t… you’re lovely, and this is lovely, but I have a  _life_ , I want to have my own life, not just this.”

"I believe I can," Bond told him, wrapping an arm around Q. "I desire you, and I shall therefore have you - it is my right."

Q all out glared. “No, no it is  _so far_  from that!” he said angrily, breaking away from Bond.

Bond watched him with anger somewhere in his bright blue eyes, and Q stared back, livid and quite tired, by now, of all this. “You do not have the right to keep me. You’re trying to seduce me, but I’m sorry, you might think I’m pretty or whatever but I’m not  _yours_ , and I won’t be. I’ll never be, not if you force me to be.”

Bond grabbed him suddenly, rolling him onto his back. “I gave you your life, you arrogant child,” he burned, blue eyes filling Q’s world, horrible and brilliant and beautiful. “You should have died, but I chose  _you._  Everything you are you owe to  _me_ ,” Bond told him, the sea below growing tempestuous, slamming against the rocks.

Q struggled, the sky growing dark above them. Fear coursed through his young body as the god straddled him, pinning him to floor. “Your life was set as a child; tell me, Q,” he chuckled, stroking the boy’s face. “Do you think you are going to age much further?”

"Yes, of course!" Q replied, the waves below sending foam flying. "If you allow me to return…"

“ _Wrong_!” Bond yelled, pressing his hands down onto Q’s shoulders. “Your immortality is set, your life belongs to me. I chose you as my mate.”

Q blinked, breathless, the sky black and air impossibly cold. “And if I don’t choose you?” he asked quietly, quieter than a breath.

"Then I shall have to, as you so well put it, ‘keep’ you," Bond told him, face inches from the boy’s. "Please believe me, it is not something that I would wish,"

"Why? Just allow me to leave…" Q tried a gentler tactic, attempting to calm the raging tumult.

"I cannot," Bond told him softly. "It was foolish, I grant you. I assumed it would not be a problem! Why would you refuse me?" he was almost shaking with a confused rage. "I made an agreement, a pact, with the others. In order to make a human an immortal deals must be struck, you shall be my responsibility…"

"Others?" Q asked, trying to read Bond’s face.

"Immortals, gods, we are allowed to mate a mortal, but it must be agreed, your life is mine Q, literally. Your soul was given to me by the underworld."

"You were meant to die as a child," Bond explained, "I took you instead, my mistake was allowing you to grow among mortals… A waste.”

With that, he plucked a terrified Q from the rock, rushed to the edge and dived, the seas opening up to receive their master.

\---

Q looked between the gods, in a circle around them, intimidating and deadly and beautiful and utterly  _terrifying_  for a human who wasn’t even scraping five foot ten.

Bond stood by him, his presence at least vaguely recognisable, as compared to the host of other gods that Q had only ever dreamt of, heard legends of. Never  _seen_.

"I should never have let you have him…” purred a voice from behind them.

Q snapped around abruptly, to see a creature leering at him; far from attractive, as Bond was. This being was swamped in darkness, wearing it like a clock, bleak white hair contrasting starkly with his form.

"Enough, Silva," Bond growled, and Q understood: the god of the underworld. Q ought to have been  _his_ , all those years ago, when he had nearly drowned in the depths of the ocean. His, and not Bond’s. “I am here to introduce my mate,” Bond said firmly, addressing it to the seeming leader.

He stood, tall and terrifying, high forehead and long nose. “My lord,” Bond added, a little belatedly.

Q almost giggled with nerves; so strange, to see the most powerful man he had ever met calling someone else ‘lord’

Another god, pale and slender; he stared at Q with eyes that seemed to penetrate his very being. “He is hardly your mate.”

"He shall be," Bond replied a little hotly, invoking a laugh in a rather buxom young woman; the goddess of love, Q assumed. Many prayed to her: the young, the spurned, the lonely. She was the most purely beautiful of the collection, with long dark hair and heavy eyelids, deep red lips.

"I shall be the judge of that darling," she smirked, walking to Q and tilting his chin upwards. Her grip was incredibly strong, all but wrenching him upwards; he stared at her solidly, hard and as brave as he could manage.

The goddess’s expression moved into a soft, somehow angry smile. “You are lucky,” she commented. “The seed is there, though it is uncertain where it shall fall.”

"In that case," the leader spoke, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You have three months."

Bond looked curiously tense, his body prepared to do battle while Q watched with utter confusion. “If you can make him love you,” the leader told him, “then you make keep him. If not…”

The god looked to Silva, the darkness spreading out from him in anticipation, eager and wanting. “Then he is yours.”

\---

They had returned to Bond’s abode, an odd little island, barely larger than a few houses in Q’s village. The main focus was the cave; pelts and rugs and blankets coated the stones and made for quite a comfy hideaway.

Q curled in a corner, blanket wrapped around him warmly. It was evening; Bond was tending to the fire outside, smoke crackling upwards into the darkening sky, sparks darting out and off intermittently.

After ten minutes of solitude, Q stood, dragging his blanket outside.

"What did she mean, the ‘seed’?" Q asked quietly, after a moments of quiet.

Bond sighed, eyes watching the fire distantly. “You are capable of loving me - we are matched,” he told Q calmly. “Though, whether it will flourish will depend upon us.”

"And if I don’t - if I can’t love you?" Q asked, watching leaves shrivel in the flames.

"Then Silva will claim you - as he should have done many years ago," Bond told him, sounding slightly angry.

"So I’ll be dead? I’ll die?"

Q mulled this over in his mind. The god of the underworld - the afterlife. He took the souls of the dead, and often treating them in a way that was far from pleasant.

"Not exactly," Bond answered.

Q turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”

Bond continued to look forward, slightly sad “Your soul is forever altered by my actions; you are a little more than mortal, though less than a god,” Bond explained. “Silva may simply confine you to a messenger, meaningless tasks. A minion so to speak. They are common among mortals that we prize highly. Or he may do as I wished and take you for a mate.”

Q swallowed, remembering the darkness that swallowed the god, the coldness that emanated from his being. Bond sat next to him, golden skin gleaming in the light. He hung his head in frustration, unable to believe that humans were really such idle _toys,_  to these beings. He rose from his seat, retreating into the cave.

Bond watched him go, the fire dying unnaturally as a cool breeze washed over them, and Q was plagued with a sense of true foreboding.


	104. The Pet Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, could I request for Q being captured as a pet to be objectified and put on shows ala dog shows? Up to you if it’s a verse where this is the norm, or from canon verse. You may have my soul if Bond saves Q later. HERE, MY SOUL, TAKE ITTTTTT *。*:゜☆ヽ(*’∀’*)/☆゜:。*。 *:. - anon

“Beautiful, truly beautiful,”

Q awoke slowly, groggy. His limbs felt heavy, even his eyelids refused at first to open as he tried in vain to gauge his surroundings. This was not his first kidnapping, a young Quartermaster was always a likely target; but last time, an agent had brought him back within hours – they hadn’t even managed to get him outside the country. Nevertheless, it still ranked as one of the scariest experiences of Q’s life. He began to focus on breathing, trying desperately to remember the protocols.

“Found him just coming out of the tube, very late for a young man of his looks.”

Clearly not his first language, Q noted, unable to distinguish the accent. Potentially Russian. They had been after leverage since the poisoned diplomat incident.  _Let it be a ransom job_ , he pleaded mentally; money was easy, information had a far higher cost.

“You’ll get a good price for him,” the second man grunted as Q tried to roll over. Whatever they had drugged him with was still very prevalent, so he remained carefully still. Don’t give them anything, don’t antagonise them, wait. His heartbeat was increasing, beating harder and harder, trapped in his lead-lined chest.

“I’ll clean him and put him up for auction,” the first man was speaking again. This was potentially very, very bad, Q thought as he felt a finger stroking down his back. Auction? Less good. At least it gave them a bit more time to get to him.

“Virgin, you think?” one asked, “he’ll sell better. Pets are nicer… clean.” Q almost laughed with relief. They weren’t after  _him –_ they were pet-dealers.

Pet-shows were horrific things, but an ever growing industry. It began consensually, a small side-element to some BDSM clubs. Money got involved, unsurprisingly. Pets were shown off, generally by displaying some kind of prowess, whether simply their looks or sexual abilities and the winner gained a moderate cash sum. Trafficking rings got involved, shortly afterwards. They started picking people up for the specific reason of selling them into the pet circles.

Clearly, Q had attracted their attention. He swallowed, initial relief fading as he realised quite what that meant.

“Sir!”

A new voice; Q put all of his effort into trying to open his eyes to stare at the newcomer, eyes not focusing without his glasses.

A young man, cropped hair but no highly distinguishing figures. “We’ve had a message – I put up his picture and… well. We’ve got a buyer,” he finished breathlessly, looking very pleased with himself.

“What? He’s not up for another few days.”

Q focused in on the sound; the second speaker was a surprisingly small man, with slightly yellowish skin. “Tell him to wait.”

“I think you’ll want to see the offer,” the young man said, agitated. He handed an ipad over, and the first man’s eyes widened.

“Is this a joke?” he asked, looking from the tablet to the man. “He’s not worth half this!”

“Clearly piqued someone’s interest. Wants him ASAP though – he’ll send someone over if we confirm now.”

Panic had set in, on Q’s part; clearly someone knew his true value, unless someone had a penchant for curly hair and anaemia. He tried once more to roll over, clawing at the sheets.

“Well, at that price? If he is serious… tell him to pay in cash,” the first man instructed, younger man nodding eagerly. “What’s the name?”

“Erm, something foreign,” his colleague tried, scanning the email. “Silva, that’s it. Raoul Silva.”

\---

At the sound of Silva’s name Q felt a surge of true panic.

It couldn’t be. The Skyfall incident, as it was officially known, had occurred nearly six months previously. Raoul Silva had been declared dead, Bond himself had confirmed it; no body was recovered, but it was assumed one of Silva’s men had dealt with it.

"Oi.”

One of his captors had turned to look at him, Q dimly aware that he must have been writhing slightly, trying get himself free. “Kid’s awake!”

"Knock him out again," ordered the leader, barely even glancing at Q, "I want him cleaned and ready when the buyer gets here,"

The youngest of them came forward, looking at Q with fresh curiosity. “He wants him as he comes, shaved, but leave his hair.”

Q silently begged they only meant to shave his jaw; work had left him with an irritating layer of stubble that he hadn’t had time to deal with quite yet. “Fine, look, knock him out.”

The prick of a needle, a few moments more of panic, and then nothing.

-

Q woke up again, head throbbing painfully, with minimal memory of what in the hell had happened. There were voices, somewhere, very distant and very removed, and his skin felt damn weird, almost slippery as his bare legs - worrying moment - moved against one another.

Q moved a hand down, and blanched. Bloody fucking hell, he’d been shaved. Properly shaved. Everything was gone; he felt about twelve again. Thankfully the lethargy that had accompanied his previous waking was no longer present; he sat up slowly, only to fall back down onto the bed as his head spun in crazed circles.

After a moment, he tried again, crawling across the surface of the bed to the edge and dragging himself upright.

Glasses,  _fuck_. For a worrying moment, Q wondered if they’d taken them, before thankfully finding them next to him. He grasped at them urgently, desperate to break out of the haziness around him.

"… I have given you my price, gentlemen," a voice seeped in, under his door.

Q knew that voice. The accent alone was unmistakable, and Q flashed through images _not such a clever boy_  and tube trains and dislocated jaws  _not such a clever boy_  and laughing skulls and failure, the acid sting of his own failure.

At least, Q’s logical mind inputted, he was unlikely to kill. He was paying a great deal, so more likely torture than death.

Brilliant.

The door opened. “Buedos dias, querida,” the older man smiled.

Q forced himself to face the man, momentarily uncertain as to what he would find. Bond had apparently stabbed him, but nothing of it showed as Silva sashayed in, seating himself opposite Q’s bed.

“How, the  _fuck_ , are you still alive?” Q asked flatly, unable to stop idly running a hand along the perversely flat skin of his legs. It happened, for pets, but it didn’t stop it feeling very weird indeed.

"Wouldn’t you just love to know," Silva teased, crossing his legs and watching Q’s fingers sliding down his skin, his own fingertips curiously joining. "Benito…"

Q wrenched his leg away from Silva’s touch, voice sharp and angry. “I hope you’re not expecting me to understand”

Silva raised an eyebrow, almost pouting. “So  _cold_ , so unfriendly,” he pointed out. “I’ve been waiting a while to meet you properly. I must say; it was worth waiting for.”

Q almost laughed, Silva returning him a lightly perfumed smile. “I have to admit, this would not be the way I would have anticipated it,” he conceded.

"Not that you’re complaining," Q returned, crossing his legs in an almost child-like fashion to prevent any further touches.

Silva tilted his head to one side casually, surveying the young man with absolute calm, absolute control. “Indeed,” he agreed, and smiled in a way that made Q’s spine crawl.

\---

Q watched carefully as the last of the deal was finalised; the dealer nodded greedily, “We agreed on a cash payment?” he confirmed, looking to Silva. Silva leant back, smirking, pulling an impressively bulky envelope.

The man rushed forward, taking the packet. “He’s not trained,” the man told Silva, looking at his haul with a slightly disparaging expression.

"That is fine, I’d rather break him in myself," Silva shrugged, with an obsequious smile. "More personal."

The man took himself to be dismissed, and obediently left. Silva turned back, glancing over Q. “Present for you dear one,” he trilled; Q watched with a touch of distinct nervousness as Silva drew out a dusky brown leather collar.

“Is that really necessary?” Q asked irritably, as Silva approached him. “Keeping up appearances?”

"Something like that…" Silva smirked, hand knotting in Q’s hair as he tugged him forward, forcing his head down; Q flinched slightly, as a thin collar was fastened around his throat. His breath started to rasp slightly as the leather was tightened past being uncomfortable, and into the realm of choking. Silva attached a damn  _lead_  to the front, and yanked him him off the bed, out into the corridor.

Q looked around, trying to cover himself with the thin vest and pants he had been left in as the various members watched him,  _leering_. “Thank you gentlemen,” Silva threw over his shoulder as he left, and smirked at the men he had waiting outside, giving them a single, curt nod.

The shots made Q jump in his skin, spinning round abruptly to see the mess left behind of the handful of men who had been waiting around. “Can’t have them finding out what they had,” Silva shrugged, as one of his men retrieved the bloodied envelope from the dealer’s hand, Q watching mutely. Silva wrenched him closer, sliding an arm around his waist to keep him in place while the other hand remained tight in the lead.

The drive passed quickly, blindfolded, with hands tied behind him; he flinched as he stepped out of the car onto hard tarmac – still barefoot – led indoors, through stairs, onto a breathtakingly soft carpet.

"Sit down," Silva instructed, as Q felt a chair behind him. He did so; the blindfold was removed, light flooding too-brightly in. The room was as garish as his owner, richly decorated, fabric draping from the ceiling in ornate colours and patterns.

Q took a breath to steady himself “I’m not going to tell you anything,” he said simply.

Silva leaned back on the central, four-poster bed that marked the centrepiece of the room, Q sat directly in front of him, watching.

"Of course," Silva agreed, tilting his head slightly to one side with faint curiosity. "Whatever made you think I wanted anything?"

Q’s expression shifted, Silva’s turning delectably satisfied. “My dear Quartermaster, information? So easy. I can get into your system, albeit with a little effort,” he nodded to the computer set up in the corner, a small part of Q’s mind sighing out happily as he eyed the mass of technology, “and I have your servers as I want them. Especially without you slowing me down.”

"What…?" Q asked uneasily, as Silva moved behind him. "Then why the  _hell_  am I here?”

Silva clearly didn’t want for money, so a ransom was out. He also had any information Q might have been able to give.

"For the reason I bought you, dear one," Silva explained, stroking a finger down his face. "I move in certain circles, where a pretty thing on my arm would truly aid my position, ask yourself: why was I looking on those websites in the first place?"

Q felt his breath catch as his mind caught up with what he was hearing. “You want a pet?” he choked, unable to quite believe it; he had mentally prepared himself for tortures of various varieties when he had heard Silva’s name, but certainly  _not_ actually being asked to perform as Silva’s  _pet_.

“And you are so beautiful…” Silva murmured, Q suddenly active, tugging at the collar and finding it firmly locked. “I didn’t want some broken young thing, I have plenty of those…” Silva told him, enjoying the panic that was quietly rising in the younger man. “And then you appeared, imagine my luck! Taking mummy’s new toy and breaking him; poetic, no? Not to mention, you are rather my… ‘type’, as it were.”

"Enough, that’s enough," Q swallowed, the computer in the background still demolishing his system. "Stop it,"

"No," Silva told him, almost lovingly. "Now, I do have a few rules…" he began, as Q shot him a withering look.

"You honestly think I am going to go along with this?" he asked, as Silva rolled his eyes, grabbing Q’s hair once again and yanking him over to the bed. He bent the younger man over, dragging down Q’s shorts as he kicked and yelled.

One hand slid between Q’s legs, running the pad of his thumb against the newly bare, disconcertingly smooth skin.

Q froze. Silva continued to fondle him, touching and squeezing.

"Do I have your attention?" he asked liltingly, with a painful, emphatic squeeze; Q nodded against the bed, as Silva smiled. "Wonderful. Rule one: you will do as I say, when I say it. Nod if you understand."

Q did so slowly; it would probably be better to at least  _pretend_  to listen. “Rule two: you will only speak if addressed.” Another nod. “Rule three: you will treat me with respect and adoration”.

A pause. Q didn’t move.

Silva sneered, twisting Q’s balls in his hand, causing the man to yelp in pain, body cringing inwards.

"If any of these rules are broken, you will be punished accordingly," Silva informed him. "If you behave, then you will earn certain privileges; clothes, free time et cetera."

Q grit his teeth as he was yanked upwards, by the collar this time; he gasped for air, Silva looking him over hungrily, and holding his face in position. An instant away from contact, from the press of lips against his own, and Q clenched his jaw stubbornly.

Before he could finish, Silva’s phone rang.

The man let out a melodramatic sigh, reaching for the small device and holding it to his ear; a tirade of irritable Spanish, before an abrupt jab to hang up the call. “We shall have to continue this later,” Silva said softly, and pressed a soft kiss to Q’s nose.

Q yelped as he was pulled forward – again by the collar and lead – towards a small cage, barred, just large enough to fit a single human being. Silva explained nothing. He simply forced Q, head first, into the cage and locked it.

“Silva…” Q tried, a little desperately.

The older man waved his fingers eloquently, and slid out the door.

\---

Q blinked slowly, languidly, body still but mind starting to jump slightly. He was exhausted; Silva had been intent on training him in time for this goddamn circus, barely allowing Q to breathe while training continued. His head ached, throbbed uncomfortably at the temples, glasses removed and replaced with contact lenses, and his whole body poked and prodded. To add insult to injury, his hair had been meticulously styled, face painted roughly with god alone knew what.

Q had been allowed one – brief – look in the mirror, and had gaped.

Men and women alike strode down aisles, cages with others like Q, some elegant and confident, others visibly uncomfortable, some actively terrified. Q lifted fingers to the mesh bars of his own cage, awkwardly trying to stretch, cringing slightly at the face that loomed in to examine him further, clipboard nestled in a fat elbow.

The childish temptation to spit in the man’s place was tempered only by his fear of the repercussions; a small shudder ran through him, trying to force thoughts in opposite directions to  _that_.

Q had spent most of the preceding days wondering quite  _why_  Silva was bothering with all this; it was only now, as he saw the man sashay about through the throngs of owners, that he could understand. Money, privilege; the prizes in shows like this were monumental.

Another shadow passed over the cage, and Q pointedly kept his eyes down. “Fancy seeing you here,” murmured a voice, almost inaudible.

Q dared a glance up. “Fuck,” he breathed, daring to hope, daring to imagine for a moment. “Silva. It’s Silva. Watch out for him.”

Bond quirked a smile, apparently not too perturbed by Silva’s state of not-dead-ness. “We’re tracking him,” he assured his Quartermaster, unable to remain at Q’s cage for long. “Stay with us, Q.”

"Not like I’m going anywhere…" Q muttered as Bond retreated.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen for your patience," one of the judges began, holding onto his clipboard. "We have now scored each of the competitors for the first round; round two will begin shortly,"

Q swallowed. Compared to what was about to happen simply sitting in a cofined space seemed like a lovely way to spend the afternoon. In fact, an  _airborne_  confined space would be better. Anything, compared with this.

Silva approached him, unlocking the cage and clipping a lead onto his collar. He leaned close, lips brushing Q’s ear as the younger man unfolded himself from the cramped cage. “If you do not perform well today little one, then I can assure you, you shall regret it.”

 Silva kissed him lightly on the neck, admiring the man’s nude body. “Then let me do what I am  _good at_ ,” Q replied, with naked vitriol.

Silva all but snarled, tugging at the collar until Q was choking under his hands. “This is what you are good at now,” he hissed, as Q’s fingers attempted to prise off the collar. “You are  _nothing_  now, you never were. You were an amateur hacker at best – I must concede your programming was excellent – but trust me as a man who has sampled most of your work,” he licked a strip along Q’s neck, up to his ear, Q shivering. “You fuck better than you type.”

Q was guided forward, into the central ring; waiting, as anticipated, were rather eager-looking men. The idea was to score the pets based on their ‘talents’.

Q waited outside, Silva’s hand still stroking him lightly as threats were occasionally whispered into his ear. He watched as pets were lined up, used and sent away, the men in the ring replaced after they’d orgasmed. When he got out of this, he promised himself, he would shut down every ring in the damn country.

"Your turn querida," Silva murmured, dragging Q into the centre. Q was shaking slighly, all eyes on him.

He turned to the first man, and was met with a pair of bright, electrically blue eyes.

It took everything in him for Q not to cry out, with sheer, naked relief. Silva was too busy egging on the crowd, taking bets, networking, to notice the man sat opposite his pet.

"Draw it out, if you can," Bond told him softly, the subtext apparent:  _They are on their way Q, make this last and nobody else will touch you_.

Q nodded, blushing. James Bond. Oh god.

They had… talked. At the Christmas piss-up (party was far too kind a word for it), Bond flirting heavily, both too drunk, too hot, disinclined to care. They made out like teenagers, and failed to speak about it again.

True, this was too far too fast. True, this was not an ideal scenario.

But also true, that Q had wanted this for a while. Bond had, too; he’d said as much, through their kisses, and Q had been too alcohol-sodden and too embarrassed to reference it ever again.

Q took a breath, smiling slightly to comfort the agent, let him know that it was alright.

Bond’s fingers curled in his hair, and Q leaned in.

\---

Q licked his lips, taking in the sight of Bond’s, rather impressive, cock.

"Bigger than what you’re used to?" Bond murmured below his breath, very nearly inspiring a quiet laugh. Silva wasn’t lacking, but really, Bond outclassed him.

Hands were banned, for this round at least; Q had to get Bond off with just his mouth. He started teasingly, taking the head of the man’s cock between his lips, tongue playing across the tip.

Bond smiled, hand gently moving to Q’s head in quiet encouragement; Q glanced up briefly, feeling surprisingly calm. This was a considerably better outcome than Q had ever thought he could have, and Bond seemed almost paranoid about not moving more than necessary; Q could guide the speed, the depth, himself. He could feel Bond’s arousal growing, and steadied himself; he needed time. The work wasn’t marked on speed, after all, but on skill.

Silva didn’t appear to have noticed that his pet was busy with an MI6 agent. Q could hear him rallying crowds, the tenor humming around the confined space. His anxiety remained at a strung-out peak, terrified that Silva would notice, that this would not end as he desperately wanted it to.

Q leaned further forward, taking Bond fully into his throat, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked. Bond’s hand remained gentle, stroking, almost questioning; Q flattened his tongue against the underside of Bond’s cock, rewarded with a shiver from the man. This was what Q had wanted to do, once, and he tried to make himself imagine a different scenario to keep his head from spinning.

He calmed, drew back; Bond let out an inadvertent growl as the pressure receded. MI6 would come soon, they had to, especially given that Bond was getting closer now; he gasped as Q swallowed, looking down at him sharply.

Doors crashed, gunshots echoing. The shock made Q do something absurd with his breath and mouth; Bond came with a sharply shouted curse, not able to experience even a second of afterglow before dragging a startled Q forward, moving in front of him, and grabbing his handgun from inside his jacket in a series of fluid motions.

_"MI6!"_

People were yelling, as Bond dragged Q out of the room. He felt Bond’s strong hands on him, feeling dense fluid trickle out of the edge of his mouth, several stages into shock. He literally let matters unfold around him, staying in Bond’s arms, collapsing slightly when Bond finally stopped.

"I’m so sorry," Bond said simply, with more gravity than Q had ever heard from him, a weight and sincerity and deep regret. "MI6 are here, Silva has been apprehended. I’ve called for a med evac for you…"

"Don’t leave me, James please.." he found himself saying, almost on repeat as Bond held him, taking off his jacket and wrapping Q’s bare frame in it. The jacket all but swamped him, Q glancing up, very much in control but adamant that he would never be left behind again.

Bond sat down next to him, and let the younger man lean on him, shivering.

\---

_"What do you say?"_

_"Fuck off."_

_Yet more excruciating, insistent pain across his arse, “What do you say?” so calm, so disgustingly calm, he can’t reply, it hurts, everything hurts, it’s too much. “Well?” He’s screaming, blow after blow landing on his backside, his thighs, legs painfully stretched wide so the crop occasionally hits his balls. “What do you say?”_

_"Sir. Sir!"_

_"Well?"_

_"Thank you… sir."_

"Q, do you want anything?"

The answer is automatic: “No, sir.”

Bond freezes for a fraction of a second, and Q whistles out breath between clenched teeth and hates himself, hates and hates, because he is not this. He should not be this.

But he is scared, and Bond is twice his size and muscular and almost similar, almost similar to Silva, and when Q is half-asleep and see somebody out of the edges of his vision, it is Silva. It is always Silva.

Bond doesn’t mention it. Six weeks ago he had been rescued, and in that time not a word was breathed about what had occurred. Silva was in custody, Q reminded himself; sometimes he would watch the man as he paced around his cell, just to reassure himself that he was still there.

_Q arches his back, muscles trembling at the strain; everything aches, pain in places he didn’t know could hurt to such a degree. He has conceded defeat, on some points, because when everything reached breakpoint all in one go, he had to draw a line somewhere, and that somewhere was that he can now make Silva orgasm, with just his mouth, in eighty-four seconds (a new record) and knows he will be expected to repeat the performance for others. He wakes up with the desperation of wishing he was elsewhere._

Being elsewhere, however, seems deeply hollow now he’s there, with Bond’s eyes boring holes in his spine.

"I’ll see you tomorrow 007," Q tells him, moving swiftly to his office. He sits down, head in hands as another wave washes over him.

_Collar tugging, too hard and too much, choking him. Hands running through his hair, pulling, tugging, stroking the soft strands. His jaw, too stretched, aching._

The ache of a memory as he picks up his tea, massaging the joint with two fingers, begging the pain to recede so that he can drink his tea in peace. It doesn’t quite stop. None of it does. Bond stays - he always stays these days, even when Q thinks he wants to be alone - and they are now used to one another, a weary acceptance of the other. Bond drinks, and Q doesn’t sleep. They are close to being intimate again, but Bond seems more wary than even Q on that front, and Q knows half his want is born of not quite knowing how one is supposed to show affection or intimacy.

Silva stripped him of something painfully  _basic_ , and the anger of that still refuses to fade.

 _Not such a clever boy then_.

His hand shakes as he takes a sip.

_Where are all your pretty toys, pretty words?_

The tea, too hot on his tongue.

_There you go, good boy, such a good boy, my boy, I’m so proud of you…_

The cup drops from his hand.

Shatters.


	105. The Cheating!Bond Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Bond and Q have a lovely life together. One day James freaks out about how domestic they have become, so he sabotages things by having a one night stand… with another man. Q finds out and is obviously really hurt. I’ll let you decide the ending. Thanks! – anon

Q let out a shuttered breath, eyes slipping shut, refusing to let it upset him. He was an adult, in a high-powered job, and really, he should never have been so naïve as to think that he could have it all. A boyfriend who loved him, a gorgeous flat, a goddamn cat that was still alive after several months; it was going perfectly, and then Bond had done this.

Oddly, Q would have dealt with it better if it had been some gorgeous, statuesque woman. Bond had always had a weakness for that type.

Men, though. Apparently Q was his first. Initially, Bond had been entirely unable to handle his own sexuality. Q had painstakingly talked him off the metaphorical ledge, and they had managed to settle into a truly fantastic little life, at least for a while.

The other man was tall, muscled, gorgeous in an accessible way that managed to play on every single one of Q’s insecurities; he had always feared Bond considering him a weakling, some pathetic, effeminate little thing. And now, he chose to go home with a gorgeous, macho bloke from a random club to fuck into the earlier hours.

Q cried expressionlessly, because really, he felt he was allowed. He had loved Bond, he still did, and this was a betrayal on a level he could barely compute. This undermined everything.

“I thought… incorrectly, apparently… that you loved me,” Q said, in a tone that was frighteningly flippant.

Bond’s eyes were slightly wide, clearly shocked at having been caught out. “Q…”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Q replied wearily. “You intentionally selected the type of person who would hurt me the most. Malice on a hitherto unknown scale, James, I’m almost impressed.”

“I’m sorry,” Bond said frankly, openly, palms extended in a gesture of universal surrender. “I don’t have an excuse.”

Q shook his head slightly. “So why are you even here?” he asked quietly. “Do you honestly think an apology will cut it? All the time we’ve been together, and you fuck it up, and you don’t even have a reason?!”

“I said I didn’t have an excuse, not that I didn’t have a reason,” Bond said, a little too sharply, making Q growl a little. “Sorry. I… Q, I’ve never been in a long-term relationship, not like this. We have a fucking cat.”

Q let out a sharp, horrible cackle. “You think blaming this on your inability to commit will cut ice?” he asked rhetorically. “Oh, you know – fuck this. Get out. Just get the fuck away from me, and don’t even fucking think about coming back. Jesus, James. I hope he was worth it, I really fucking do, I hope it was a fucking brilliant shag because you’re not having one from me again, you absolute shit.”

“Q…”

“OUT,” Q screamed, inches from throwing things.

Bond left.

\---

Q had kept the flat. It had seemed only sensible, with Bond so often out the country. When he was in the UK MI6 could normally put him up for the necessary weeks. His stuff was moved into storage, some of the more necessary items finding a temporary home with Eve. The world continued, Bond returning to his never-ending bachelorhood. His first mission was a fairly straight forward one, and he turned up at Q-branch as ordered.

His Quartermaster was nowhere to be found. A nervous looking young woman approched him, box in hand.

“007?”

“Yes?”

“Your equipment…” she began, opening the box.

“Where is Q?” Bond interrupted, dark circles heavy beneath his bright blue glare.

“He’s… he’s busy,” R told him nervously, trying once more to hand him his gear.

“He’s alright?” Bond asked emphatically, R looking to the floor. When she looked back up, something within herself had rallied.

“That is none of your concern 007. This is your equipment; if you would like to actually use it I would suggest shutting up and listening to me.”

Bond was half tempted to slap her, but the looks he received from the rest of the branch were enough to suggest that he would not make it out alive.

“Right.” He nodded, taking the box and listening to the standard safety instructions.

—-

“Talk to him.” Eve instructed, as Bond left M’s office after the debrief.

He grunted, heading out for his rented flat.

“ _Well_?” she asked, again and again, time after time.

His eyes got redder, his whores cheaper. The booze was expensive, but still he drank and still he lived. James Bond, shaken not stirred. Different flats for different months, different women to match. No home, no shopping lists, no bloody cat. He kept going as he always did, the little voice in his ear growing quieter as the ones in his head grew louder.

Things began to blur and it was only when M sat him down, suspension order in hand, did anything begin to get through.

“I’m the best you’ve bloody got!”

“You currently couldn’t land a shot at point blank!” M replied sharply, slamming the papers to the table. “You are no longer in your twenties 007, don’t you think it’s about to to grow up and take control of your damn life?!”

Bond was all but shaking. “Maybe there is a reason double-ohs don’t live beyond their thirties!” 

“Maybe there is,” M agreed flatly. “Maybe because they are all too pig headed to actually make something of their lives. Maybe because they would rather die than face retirement, too stupid to realise that perhaps there is something more than an endless string of targets.”

“I didn’t think my personal life was your business, sir.” Bond responded, poker faced, anger simmering under the surface

“Everyone’s personal life is my business,” M told him, looking the agent up and down. “Sober up Bond, get your head together and stop trying to live like a child. Talk to him, given that he seems to be the tipping point for your sobriety.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me!” Bond roared.

“Well you had better find a way to make him listen,” M told him, tone cold, very unimpressed. “If you want to keep your job.”

“How?” Bond asked, sinking down into his chair.

“No idea.” M admitted, throwing Bond his papers. “Change. And prove it to him.”

“And if I don’t want to change?”

“Then get the fuck out of my office, and don’t bother coming back.”

-

Q arrived early, as per his habit, swiping open his office door, coffee in hand. He sat down, finishing around for a coaster and pinching the bridge of his nose. His hand fell on something odd. Drawing it closer, a small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, before breaking. Tears fell angrily, fists clenched.

Sitting on his desk was a small tin of cat food.

\---

"Thanks for meeting me," Bond began, watching Q across the table. It had been three months since his suspension from active work, and the backlog of paperwork was taking its toll. Apparently a decade or so of service had mounted up to quite a pile, and Bond hadn’t done a damn thing since he’d started.

Q nodded, staring at his tea. His fingers were locked around the mug as a lifeline. He didn’t look up.

"I’ve been seeing someone," Bond said slowly; Q started a little, brows clenched in confusion, “A therapist," he assured him, a heartbeat later. “Eve thought it might help."

"And is it?" Q asked in a clipped voice, the warm tea lacking its usual comfort. Bond shrugged, sitting back in the comfortable armchair; it was a nice coffee shop, the type that had sofas rather than hard-backed wooden chairs, and Q realised his thoughts were running away with him. "Why am I here, James?" he asked abruptly.

Bond took a breath, looking not at Q but at the rain outside. “I’m scared,” he admitted. Q looked to him expectantly, eyes narrowed. “Of change. Of being something I am, or should be or not being what you want…” Bond tried, watching a droplet of rain sinking down the window.

"Welcome to being human," Q murmured.

Bond glanced over, raising an eyebrow expressively “I know,” he replied quietly, and sighed. They were silent, for a long moment. “Hell, Q, you know why I asked you to come. And you came. I didn’t think you would…”

"Neither did I," Q admitted. "But… you needed me," he grinned sadly, "and James, I don’t think I will ever be able to resist that."

“I do. I do need you,” Bond admitted, the unusual concentration of emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

“I need a little more than that,” Q said softly, running a finger along the rim of his cup distractedly. “I’m not doing this again, not without…”

"I love you, Q, I love you and I want to be with you. Properly, the house and cat and everything," Bond managed, angry at himself for his own weakness. He had been preparing this conversation for hours, days, and was now reduced to sounding like an adolescent.

Q watched him, with a silent, sad expression. “You’ve said that before,” he murmured, looking back at his drink, shaking his head slightly. “Yes, you’re an excellent flatterer. I know you’re trying. But I don’t trust you, and I’m not stupid enough to go into a relationship with you when I already have a loss of something like that… I just, I love you, James. I love you, and I love being needed, and I love so much of it, but fucking _hell_ , I can’t trust you.”

"I know," Bond replied, brilliant blue eyes snapping back to Q. "And I know I can’t force you to trust me, I know I can’t make this better Q – truly, if there was a way…" he looked to Q, but saw nothing give in his silent expression."I love you," he tried again, desperately seeking the correct words, something to get through Q’s coldness. "Would you give me one more chance? I know it’s bloody more than I deserve."

"Correct.”

"Please. Help me," Bond finished, his breathing heavy, and Q was almost touched to see the weakness, the mask cracking just a little in front of him.

He reached out, placing a hand over Bond’s. “I don’t want to run into something, to find that if we’d waited, it could have had some chance of surviving,” he said carefully, softly. “Give me time. Please. It’s not a yes, so don’t… try not to expect too much of me, but it’s not a no either. Just… wait, a little bit. I’ll find you. If I can get my head around it, if you can keep going and getting better. If. Alright?”

Bond’s hand twitched, covering Q’s hand with his own, holding him in place for the briefest of movements. Of course, he had no choice but to nod, teeth gritted and expression utterly downcast.

Q waited for a beat or two, before extracting his hand gently and standing to leave.

"Thank you for the tea," he smiled, moving to where Bond sat and squeezing him on the shoulder. Bond reached up automatically, holding the hand once again, unwilling to let him go.

Q looked down to him just once, squeezed him lightly once again, and was gone.


	106. The Forced Heat Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a prompt: Omegaverse. James and Q are bonded. Alpha!James and Omega!Q get kidnapped. The kidnappers force Q into a heat. James is restrained. They threaten to let loose another, unbonded, Alpha on Q — and make James watch — if James doesn’t hand over the information they want. End it however you please. – anon

Q was breathing irregularly, curled up in a tight foetal position, starting to tremble very slightly. Bond could see the thin sheen of sweat beginning to break out over his skin, the inexorable rise of pheromones lacing the air, hitting Bond with the force of a train.

Bond’s stomach clenched. The question was answered, as to was they had been injecting into Q’s body over the past day or so; hormones. They had pumped him full of hormones, triggering a heat.

There was nothing he could do. Bond was cuffed to the wall, unable to shift as much as an inch in either direction, watching Q let out a low keen as heat rolled through his body, agonising, burning him.

The door opened; Q let out a frantic whimper, still collected enough to know he could not be in a room with another Alpha. “James,” he managed, knotting himself tighter.

A single woman. She was a Beta, sent on behalf of the Alphas running this; clearly, they did not trust themselves in a room with a young, pretty Omega in heat. Even she wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell.

“His safety, and bond status, depends on your cooperation,” she said in clipped tones, while Bond’s attention flickered too-rapidly, moving back and back and back to Q.

Bond’s voice was a harsh rasp. “You can’t leave him.”

Leaving an Omega in heat was an incredibly cruel torture. The Beta let out a soft laugh. “We have no intention of leaving him,” she purred. “My dear Mr Bond, you underestimate us. If you do not release the information we require, we will be exposing your Omega to an unbonded Alpha.”

All the air flew from Bond’s body in a frantic rush. “What?” he rasped, as Q let out an abrupt, torn cry. “No.  _No_.”

“Within about half an hour, by my estimations, he will be incoherent enough to not even care tremendously,” the Beta said dispassionately. “You have that long, Mr Bond. You need merely call if you wish to talk. If you give us what we require, we will also allow you to satisfy your Omega before it becomes agonising. As I’m certain you’re aware, suppressants are useless by this stage.”

Bond spat a wide and varied selection of curses, furious, noting the dark stains on Q’s trousers, as his body readied itself. Usually, Bond adored Q’s heats, revelled in the time spent with his young lover desperately needy, begging for him, letting their bond intensify with each passing moment.

Q sobbed, body contracting with outright terror. He would not beg, of course not, he was still an MI6 officer and he knew what was at stake, and he would deal with whatever happened but  _please_ , please not this.

“I’m so sorry,” Bond told him, trying to twist his ribs free, desperate to reach his Omega. “Oh god, Q. I can’t…”

A lost little sound, almost inaudible. “S’ok.”

Minutes flicked by. Half an hour, as promised.

The door opened.

\---

Everything stopped, eventually, of course. The incoherency of heat, the palpable need, the detailed war between biology and cognisance won by the former, leaving Q to fall apart, quiet and desperate and horrible, crying pathetically in the corner of the room, drenched in sweat and fluids, refusing to look up.

“We will fix this,” Bond said slowly, calmly, trying to get through and failing, if Q’s flinch was anything to go by. “Q, I mean it. MI6 will be here soon, and we will sort this out.”

Q still refused to look at him. He shivered, skin cooling too-fast, leaving him breathlessly cold before the next wave of heat enveloped him, and closed his eyes.

-

When MI6 eventually reached them, Q was still refusing to open his eyes. He had barely spoken, other than pleas – in both directions – and refused to do a damn other thing.

His heat had eventually ended, naturally. He was left curled in the corner of the room, their captors furious with Bond’s outright refusal to do a damn thing they asked, despite Q. Bond remained steady and solid and said not a single word, and watched his bondmate fall apart, watched their bond gradually disintegrate.

Q smelt hideously wrong. Bond was faced with the irritating problem of having been trapped  _with_  his bondmate, while the latter went into heat; he had been hard for approximately three days, trying to reach Q, fighting with everything he had and failing.

When he came close, Q didn’t move. He knotted himself up tighter, as though he could guard himself from the world, by now near enough hypothermic; heats needed far better care and attention than Q had been afforded, not to mention the psychological trauma. The Med team had wrapped a blanket around him, but Q was almost catatonic, needed his Alpha.

Bond was not his Alpha, not technically – but he had been, and that had to be enough.

“ _James_ ,” he murmured, breathless, wrinkling his nose slightly at Bond’s smell. He still refused to look. “James, get me away from here, please. Please. I can’t do this any more.”

Bond reached out his hand, curved it around the nape of Q’s neck, gently coxing Q’s head to rest in his lap. Q hiccupped a frightened sob, cringing, taking a moment or two to be soothed and lulled and brought back, breathing in Bond’s scent, just breathing, letting the familiarity drug him by increments.

Once Q was a little more pliant, it was easy enough to slide arms beneath him, lift him up carefully; Q let out another swallowed whimper, of pain this time, Bond’s arms contracting in anger. “I’ve got you,” he told his Omega, in a low voice, absolute control and absolute command, as Q buried his face in Bond’s shoulder, desperately inhaling the disgusting – but wholly necessary, wholly  _familiar_  – scent.

\---

Almost half a year had passed. Q had been unable to work despite his best intentions for the first month; mental and physical trauma could do that. Bond hadn’t left his side, prowling around the medical bays, coating Q with his scent.

It was far from welcome. Q would wake up, retching from the conflicting smells: Bond’s deep, homely scent that enveloped him, invoked memories from their time together and yet wasn’t  _his_  Alpha, so it was familiar but horrible. Then, there the scent that lingered deep within him: the one that called out for the Alpha who had claimed him.

After a month or so he went back to almost-work, conducting meetings from his bed with Bond hovering nearby.

"He’s dead," Bond announced abruptly. “Three days ago.”

The Alpha who had used him, the unbonded Alpha who had been allowed to take Q – finally, dead. It would take a little while for the scent to fade, Q knew that; widowed Omegas were technically unbonded, and their compulsion to find their Alpha would leave eventually. Something remained for now though, rotting within him. The scars that still sat there, constant reminders.

"Q?" Bond asked gently.

He was sat in his usual spot in Q’s office; the man had a bloody  _chair_  these days, somewhere he could sit and monitor Q. At least, Q thought with a slight smile, he was finally doing his paperwork. “Sorry, thinking,” Q told him eventually, toying with the edge of his glasses.

"Dangerous habit," Bond warned, customary smirk fixed in place.

Today, Q mused, was the first day in which the smell of his office hadn’t made him gag. Today, he could sit near Bond and his body did… nothing. There was nothing. Positive or negative. Bond was an Alpha, a strong one; his body knew  _that_  for certain. Beyond that, however, was the first time in months of nothing worse.

Q stood suddenly, moving over to where Bond was sat. Both moved with acquired wariness, Bond staying very still and Q padding carefully, both entirely attuned to the other.

For a moment, Q stood in front of him, just watching. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain what he was doing. As Bond watched, he knelt down very slowly in front of his lover, eyes darting over Bond’s body faster than Bond could keep up.

With a soft exhale, Q leaned down, resting his head on Bond’s thigh and taking a deep, deliberate inhale.

Bond stayed utterly still. Q had been losing the scent of the other Alpha daily, and it took most of his self-restraint to not dive onto his lover. He needed to claim Q back, know the younger man was  _his_.

Q just remained still, breathing Bond in without gagging, without obvious discomfort, for the first time in six months.

"Well?" Bond asked, as Q stood up.

Q shivered a little, looking quietly relieved. “Not yet,” Q replied carefully, moving back to his desk.

"But… at some point?" Bond asked; he had no idea how long his self control could hold, but he would. For Q, he would.

Q considered this, eyeing the line of code in front of him. He looked up, catching Bond’s eyes. “Possibly,” he conceded, returning to his work.


	107. The Bond's Mother Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where James’ mom is still alive and she’s scary? One of those mom’s where she has the means/cunning to ensure their child is happy and gets what they want even if they don’t know what they want yet? She meets Q when he and James are still testing out their professional relationship and decides he’s the most adorable thing ever and a perfect match for her son. Thank you! – runemarks

“… and this is Q. He’s my Quartermaster,” Bond said, stepping back to allow Q to shake the hand of one of the most imposing women he was ever likely to come across.

Abigail Bond was an exceptional woman. Tall, businesslike, intimidating in her beauty, frighteningly intelligent, and ambitious in a way that was occasionally overwhelming; she had also been an agent once, before having James. In her sixties, but looking very good on it, hair gracefully shading from blonde into grey and her smile charming.

She took to Q instantly. A young thing, sharp and witty, evidently very protective of his agents; he chatted to her quite happily, while his fingers glided over the keyboard, in his home territory. Abigail was only there for a catch-up with Mallory, before her son had taken her on an impromptu tour.

“He’s delightful,” she said conspiratorially afterwards; Bond stalled a little in his motions, heading for the drinks cabinet.

Every time. Every time. “Please don’t,” Bond asked a little wearily, pouring himself a scotch, handing a gin and tonic to his mother. “He’s my Quartermaster, it would be ridiculously…”

Abigail blinked, breath suddenly stuttering. Bond cursed in several languages, as she went for the guilt-trip, a speciality since Bond’s earliest youth. “All I ever wanted for you was to be happy,” she said with a soft sigh, reaching out to her son, the lines of her body softer. “To find somebody, settle down after you’re retired from MI6, have a family…”

“Biologically speaking, a family may be tricky,” Bond commented drily; Abigail withdrew her hand with a dramatic sniff.

“Don’t be so literal,” she sniped, turning her head away a little, looking perfectly mournful. “I could die, never seeing…”

Bond sighed irritably. “Mother, you’ll outlive everybody, and we both know that. I’m not a child. Q is…”

“Are you not good enough for him? Is that what he thinks?” she said abruptly, turning on Bond.

Bond just blinked. “My god. Just stop,” he said levelly, shaking his head a little. “Q hasn’t said a single word to indicate he’s even interested…”

Abigail was already on her phone, typing. “We’ll see,” she said enigmatically, one of the most frightening sentences he could recall hearing since the I’m not angry, darling when he was fifteen.

Neither Q nor Bond stood a chance.

\---

Q could honestly say he had never been so terrified in his entire adult life, and that included being held by Iranian terrorists for a full two days before MI6 had swung by and shot everybody in sight.

The  _mother_  of the most lethal double-oh agent in history was sitting opposite him, looking both utterly  sweet and terrifyingly stern. They had met before, on a purely casual basis, and Q had  _thought_  she quite liked him, for whatever reasons.

Now, she was interrogating him on a subject matter he  _really_  didn’t want to go into, while looking ready and able to decapitate the young man without much effort.

“Well, Mrs Bond…”

“That would be either Miss Bond, or preferably Abigail,” she corrected easily, with an ingratiating smile. “Divorced and happily so, and have a personality beyond the realms of my surname.”

Terror ramped up a notch. “How… what would you like me to…?” Q mumbled with absolutely zero eloquence, avoiding the uncertain and apparently inflammatory subject of Bond’s mother’s name. This was humiliating. He could usually at  _least_ depend on his dexterity with words, when terrified out of his mind.

Not with her.

She crossed her ankles, straightening her skirt slightly. Q abruptly worked out where Bond got his penchant for fine tailoring from; Abigail was perfectly dressed, flattering and age-appropriate and cut in such a way that Q impulsively wanted to do a weapons scan.

“If you have any interest in my son,” she continued carefully, “then you will make it known. If you do not, then you will desist from further  _flirtatious_  behaviour.”

Q was relatively certain he had blushed all the way to his toes. His entire face was burning. Abigail had already made it very,  _very_ clear what she considered ‘flirtatious behaviour’ to be, which indicated that she had watched Q and Bond interact  _far_  more than Q had expected, and had a vested interest in their being together.

At a loss for anything better to say, Q simply nodded.

Abigail smiled sweetly. “Splendid. You’re a lovely boy, Q, and I do truly believe you care for my son. You’re just his type, too, and he is  _very_  keen on you.”

The blush must have been sending him  _purple_ , Q thought desperately. “I… thank you,” he said, feeling a flash of victory just for getting those words out.

With another smile, Abigail stood, and left without a further word.

Q debated passing out.

“R, I need tea. Black, no sugar,” he rasped into his headpiece; R turned up a second later, looking panicked. “No, nothing’s happened,” he said, waving her off. “I just… trust me, on this. And get Bond down here,  _now_.”


	108. The Hermit!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical au: Q’s a hermit that lives in his deceased mother’s house on the edge of the woods. He’s trying some potions from one of her alchemy books when potion boils over and explodes in a cloud of dust, covering him. He thinks all’s well until that night when a tall blue-eyed creature claiming to be a forest guardian shows up at the house looking for his mate and insisting that it’s Q. - runemarks

The clear up was a nightmare. Dust was glued to everything, coating not only the books but most of Q as well. He sighed, rubbing his temples as he squinted through the muck. He picked up the nearest book, brushing the page clean and trying to work out just what had gone wrong  _this_  time. He hoped vaguely that the explosion hadn’t angered the local villagers, they were already convinced there was something wrong with him, the last thing he needed was for them to walk in on this.

After several hours – and no adverse effects, thankfully – he wound up sleeping in his mother’s old rocking chair, dozing, the house at least partially clear.

There was a knock at the door.

Q awoke with a start, eyes snapping open. Villagers. Bloody, interfering… He got up from the chair, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around himself. He shuffled over to the door, mentally rehearsing his apology.

In place of a host of irritable villagers, he found, instead, a gorgeous blond thing with bright blue eyes that was smiling at him in a calm, suave manner. “My mate,” he said happily, looking over Q with a wondrous type of joy.

“Excuse me?” Q managed looking over the incredibly handsome, incredibly naked, man in his doorway. He moved forward, arms wide as if to encircle Q in a loving embrace.

Q wasted no time in reaching for the broom and whacking him firmly on the head.

“You deny me?” the man asked, sounding devastatingly confused. His eyes, so welcoming were almost tearful as Q brandished the broom once again. “My  _mate_. You have summoned me, a free spirit, because you knew we finally required one another. We are destined.”

It had to be one of the more perverse things Q had ever heard. “Who in the name of Hecate  _are_  you?!” he asked, with sheer, bare confusion.

“Bond. James Bond,” the other replied, with a comforting smile that Q realised would be very easy to fall in love with. “And you?”

Q couldn’t help but blush, a delicate rose shade. “Q,” he murmured, smiling lopsidedly. “I’m Q.”

\---

Bond turned out to be rather a useful asset, once Q had found him a pair of decent trousers. He was a solid worker, who had no problem sitting quietly for hours on end as Q delved through books. He was also exceptionally good at finding ingredients; Q would send him out daily to find mushrooms, leaves, droppings and even strange animals, and within hours, Bond would return with all the necessaries.

The only problem came in the evenings, wherein Bond would attempt to lavish attention on the young warlock. Q would bat him away, but the man would look so devastated that he would eventually allow Bond to comb his hair, massage his shoulders, even sleep curled around him.

It was… odd, certainly, but not completely unwelcome. “So I…summoned you?” Q asked one evening, as Bond sat, chopping turnips for their supper. Bond, it seemed, was an excellent cook.

"Indeed, I heard your calling," Bond told him

Q idly flicked through the book to the still-dusty page, the one he had been looking at. “I didn’t call you,” he mused. “You appeared after this one…” he re-read the title, eyes narrowing. His mother had left him the book, certain pages bookmarked; this one had been one of the first he had wanted to try. Curiously, she had always specified its importance for after she had died.

Bond looked over his shoulder, warm hand against Q’s lower back. “This is a strange book,” he commented, thumbing some of the pages curiously. “Mortal writings of the spirit world.”

"Is that where you’re from?" Q asked, eyeing the page once again. The title of the spell was simply ‘ _To fill an empty_ ’, as the literal English translation. Q had assumed a water incantation, or something to re-fill a caldron after a spillage.

Apparently not.

"Indeed," Bond told him, turning to different pages, stroking over the lettering. "I knew no form until you called me, I was…" he searched for the correct wording, "… an idea, I suppose you might say, and now I am manifested,"

"An idea of what?" Q asked, with utter fascination.

Bond smiled broadly, his blue eyes twinkling in a way Q had come to greatly enjoy. “Of many things, of flight, of speed, of… I suppose of endings, you would call them. Of re-birth.”

"You’re the spirit of resurrection?!" Q asked, more than a little surprised. "You can’t die?"

"Not as such," Bond considered. "I would simply be reborn. At least, I would have been. Now? I am uncertain."

"Let me get this right," Q said flatly, turning to his guardian. "You gave up immortality to come here? To meet me?"

"I suppose," Bond nodded, "Though, I don’t think I would quite see it as such, when you die, Q, you too will be more than this corporeal form," he smoothed a hand over Q’s arm, taking in its sheer solidity. “Then, perhaps, you will understand."

Bond’s hand trailed up to gently meet Q’s cheek, tender and light. “Why bother taking shape at all then? Why not just wait for me to die? If you are my ‘mate’,”

"There are some things best enjoyed in the flesh," Bond smiled, stroking Q’s cheek. "Besides, you needed me; you would not have been able to call me otherwise.”

"I don’t…" Q began, but was silenced by Bond’s lips as the man kissed him.


	109. The Alec Love Bite Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I love your fics! I need a little bit of cheering up. At a lecture today my crush was sporting a love bite on his neck. 6 months ago I told him how I felt he said “don’t think I mean anything by this” and then kissed me. We still hang out as friends a lot but we haven’t spoken about it since. I feel awful, even though I know I don’t really have reason to. Could I have a 00q fic where one of them sports a love bite and the other is jealous despite knowing there was nothing between them. Ta! – zoeteniets

It could have been just a blemish. Bond noticed it first when he had been hauled in for a lecture over the state of his equipment. After spending several minutes surreptitiously glancing at it, his moment arouse when Q had craned his neck to look for something on his top shelf.

Definitely a love bite.

His initial reaction was shock, running through to a deep seated jealousy

Q was a very odd creature, Bond knew that. He was frequently unpredictable – actually, he was nearly  _always_  unpredictable – and they had never shared more than a close friendship and a single kiss. Q did not want him, and that was alright, because it had to be.

This, however. It felt like something designed for  _him_ , designed to spark something hot and ugly and brilliant, and it was near enough impossible to ignore it.

“Your date get a little hungry?” Bond commented eventually, as Q drew breath in his rant about ‘correct weapon maintenance’. To Bond’s satisfaction, the Quartermaster blushed, hand rising to his neck.

“Alec gets a little enthusiastic, now…”

Bond raised his eyebrows, looking Q up and down. “Alec? Really?”

It was difficult to really know how to respond, beyond the initial rush, the desire to rip Alec’s face off and burn his entrails. Slowly. “Yes,” Q replied, relatively lightly. “Alec. 006. I… I thought you knew, actually. Sorry. I mean, it’s not a big thing, we just… ‘fuck buddies’ is a really a puerile term, but I expect that’s all you can really describe it as…”

“It’s fine, Q,” Bond found himself saying, waving a hand to try and prevent further embarrassment. “I just… I thought you had better taste.”

Q looked confused for a moment, “I thought you liked Alec? I mean, I thought you two were close?”

“Doesn’t mean I think he’s right for you,” Bond shrugged. “I mean, he’s a lot older, and double ohs don’t exactly have a long life… we don’t get pensions for a reason.”

Q blinked, breathed out a little. “Well,” he murmured, relatively quiet for a moment, almost deflated. “I tend to rather like older men, and as to life span… well, I don’t have a pension either, given that in the modern age, Quartermasters are just not that likely to survive long enough.”

Bond felt a pang of pure, defensive irritation. “Well. That’s excellent to hear. I hope you’re happy together, I…”

Q glanced over him, anxious and sad, something indiscernible living in his expression. “James…”

“I need to go, Quartermaster,” Bond interrupted, flat and toneless. “Thank you for your time.”

Apparently, that was all that was required. Q’s expression neutralised, turning incrementally colder. “My pleasure, 007,” he returned pointedly, and looked to his computer screens.

Bond lingered for a matter of seconds, before disappearing.


	110. The Pornstar Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> do you mind doing a nsfw 00q pornstar au? and since people have been giving you their fattest cows, i assume it’s only logical for me to give you a fenced pasture for them. haha thank you! you guys are awesome – anon

ond was huge. Just under six foot and about as broad shoulders, Q gazed at his body. The man practically gleamed; spray tan never looked so good as when it was glazing James Bond. He was currently shirtless, coming off of the set for a moment or two while Q stared with honest admiration, feeling more intimidated than he could humanly know.

“Q, right?” he asked, Q practically jumping out of his skin.

“Stage name, yeah… I mean… Yes. I’m Q,” Q babbled, trying to resist the urge to stare at Bond’s impressive torso.

“Excellent – look I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.” Bond told him, grabbing a loose fitting white shirt and throwing it on. “I’m not normally…” he nodded at Q, eyes trying to convey something. Currently all they were managing was a blue pool of indefinite want. Q blinked, confused. “Look, I’m normally doing straight stuff.” Bond managed eventually.

“Oh,” Q found himself almost blushing. This was ridiculous; he was a grown man. Not to mention a supposed professional.

Bond looked away, almost shyly as a make-up artist approached the pair of them. “I was just wondering if you could give me any advice?”

It was fair to say that Q had never quite been rendered speechless in that manner before; he gaped, fishlike, before managing to find words. “Well,” he began, blinking. “I’ll be receiving, so… really, it’s not all that different. The mechanics are… you’ll have done research, but… I mean, you’ll be fine…”

“Not bareback, obviously,” Bond told him, as his face was powdered. They were in a ‘spy’ thriller. Bond was playing the lead, Q an attractive young man who proves later to be a double agent working for some Spanish guy. He hadn’t met the actor yet, though after Bond he would be a hard act to follow.

It was a fairly standard setup; Q and Bond’s characters meet, Q using sex to manipulate Bond’s character. A few interrogation prison scenes with sexual undertones and pseudo-acting, a particularly nasty threesome that Bond was privately dreading, and Q ended up getting together with Bond’s character for make-up sex afterwards.

Q shrugged; really, it wasn’t a long way off his usual fare. “Not much I can say, on that,” he said, with a sideways smile. “This is the ‘nice’ scene, they eased you in gently. As it were,” he smirked, confidence picking up a little. Bond may have been an Adonis, but it was nice to feel experienced, especially given that ‘tops’ could be absolute bastards. The type of film lent itself to overly pushy, arrogant, dominant fucks who attempted – with various degrees of success – to make Q’s life miserable.

“Good to know,” Bond admitted. “My agent thought it would be a good idea, just show a bit of range – you know?” Q nodded, watching as Bond was dressed in a tight fitting tux. Q was wearing little more than a very tight pair of jeans, a vest and glasses, though neither would be as such for long.

“Are you ready gentlemen?” the director called, as both were manoeuvred onto set. “Right, nice, first meeting – start off gentle. I’ve got three angles, so try and hold off until the cum shot,” he said to Bond. Turning to Q, he looked him up and down. “You’re playing a part – we need to see the difference between this one and the last scene. You fall in love with him; right now, he’s a meal ticket.”

Q smiled sideways, looking Bond up and down. “I think I can manage that,” he said quietly, with just enough emphasis to make Bond’s mind jump to interesting conclusions.

“When you’re ready,” the director reiterated, and Bond smirked.

\---

Q moaned, making sure to turn his face towards the camera as Bond thrust firmly into him. They had been going for nearly half an hour now and Q was approaching sheer desperation. He was a professional, he could hold out, he  _had_  to.

Then, of course, Bond moved  _there_ , and Q gasped, holding off orgasm by inches.

They took another five minutes until Q was cued in, yelling loudly, begging and pleading - only partially in character.  _Finally,_  the cum shot; thankfully not on his face in this particular scene, but across his back. Q moaned in unapologetic relief, lying back and orgasming himself, cum spurting across his chest and belly.

"Cut!" The director called. "Thank you gentlemen, alright everyone, twenty minutes!"

Q nodded, standing shakily, feeling Bond grasp his elbow to support. “Thanks,” he nodded, both of them handed robes and a glass of water. They took a seat in the next room, cleaning themselves off with a few wet towels, making light jokes about the scene as a whole.

"Oh god," Q looked up, seeing the man in the doorway, their co-star. "Shit," the man was talking excitedly to the director.

"What?" Bond asked, following Q’s gaze. "Who’s…?"

"My ex," Q shut his eyes. "Well, I slept with him. Once. We were both drunk, oh god, he’s coming over."

Bond watched the rather odd looking man approach them. He was quite tall, tanned, with bleach blond hair, all combined to make him rather unnerving.

"Darling! What a charming surprise!" he greeted Q, kissing his cheek enthusiastically.

Q pulled out of the man’s range, not looking overly delighted. “Tiago,” he muttered.

"Raoul darling, I am at work," he replied, unperturbed by Q’s discomfort. "And you must be James," he smiled, taking in Bond’s delicious body. "A pleasure."

Bond offered his hand. “Raoul,” he said simply.  The handshake was surprisingly strong; Bond pulled away, stretching his fingers.

"Raoul Silva," Silva smirked, "I have seen your work, very impressive.”

Silva continued to smile, snaking an arm around Q’s waist. “Off! Raoul,” Q snapped, batting the hand away. “I told you, I’m not interested.”

Bond smirked as Q moved quite deliberately in Bond’s direction, tempted to pull Q close.

Silva looked between them, eyebrow raised. “You wound me dear one,” Silva told him, “ _but,_  we must all remain professional.”

He winked, taking a seat, the other two following suit. He had the script in his hands, flicking through it idly. “I assume you are our villain?” Q asked, glancing at his own script.

"They needed someone handsome and European," Silva shrugged, "Who else?"

"Q!" One of the runners dashed in, "sorry, you’re needed on set," he said, apologetically. Q nodded, looking back to the two men, Silva giving him a brief wave as Bond reached for his coffee.

The silence stretched for a moment, before Silva spoke. “What do you think of him?”

"Q? Nice enough boy.”

Silva hummed, leaning back. He was surprisingly well built, lean but well defined. “You have an… interest?” he asked outright.

Bond spluttered on his coffee. “Well, he’s… I mean,” Bond managed. “Maybe? I don’t know. Not my normal type.”

"No, I did not think so," Silva nodded. "Don’t involve yourself where you are not welcome, James," he smiled, teeth unnaturally white. Bond suppressed the urge to shudder. He was about to film a threesome with the man, it wouldn’t do well to piss him off.

"Look, it’s Q’s choice," Bond shrugged, standing as he was called in, along with Silva.

Both men swallowed as they walked on set. Q lay against the bed, fully nude, his glasses on the table next to him. His arse was high in the air, sound and lighting fussing around him, looking relatively bored.

Bond looked to Silva. “No promises,” he said, voice a little rough as he moved to the bed. Silva rolled his eyes, his own need growing clearer.

"I shall consider this war, Bond," he murmured, over Q’s body.

Bond  simply nodded, and smiled.

\---

 

There were pros and cons to each, Q considered, as he tilted his face to the camera, eyes wide and shining, hair curling around his face.

Bond was a truly beautiful man, but Q honestly wasn’t sure he wanted that sort of solid relationship. He seemed funny, intelligent, beautiful; everything Q wanted in a partner, quite honestly. However: Q was still only twenty-three, (playing age of sixteen to twenty-one at a push), and Bond was at least ten years older than him (playing mid-twenties to –thirties) and, by the sounds of it, had never dated another man in his life.

Silva, by contrast, was an irritating, overly camp, and slightly creepy man. He did definitely know how to look after other men, had experience, would avoid the awkward fumbling and would be unlikely to leave for a woman with pneumatic tits.

 _And_ , Q thought, whining into the mattress,  _he was a very good fuck_.

Q rolled his spine elegantly, arching upwards with an intentionally wanton moan; Silva and Bond were busy doing something or other above his head, Bond’s cock inches away from his face. Q waited for the fist to lace through his hair before opening his mouth - a small whimper slipping out of him - and taking Bond near enough to the root in a single, easy swallow.

It wasn’t, Q mused, tongue working along Bond’s erection, making him groan on cue, that he didn’t  _want_  a long term relationship. Just, not yet. Or maybe he  _did._

Silva moved behind him, thrusting into his arse, as Q swallowed. Silva was… fun, he was fun to bait and tease, then naturally fun in other areas. Bond was a relative unknown.

It would actually be  _nice_  to get to know him, Q thought, as the hand in his hair forced him to choke slightly on the cock in his mouth. His expression remained carefully constructed, sobbing as Bond withdrew a little before he pushed back in.

Q had an odd, vague idea that Bond and Silva’s characters were exchanging dialogue somewhere above his head, but he had far more pressing concerns; Silva didn’t compromise on or off camera, and Bond was a relative novice both at this type of scene, and certainly with male partners.

Absentmindedly, Q continued to consider the two; sex was nice, but Bond also had the perks of being a far better conversationalist. Not to mention far more aesthetically pleasing.

Ten minutes later, as Q swirled mouthwash around his mouth, Bond approached him. “That went well,” he commented, watching as Q spat out the green liquid, wiping the last of Bond’s ejaculate off of his face.

Q shrugged, clicking out his spine in a cat-like contortion. “Sorry, mind elsewhere,” he admitted, sending Bond a fleeting smile. “Glad to hear you were ok though,”

Bond nodded; were he anyone else, Q might have called it a shy gesture. “I was just wondering, if you weren’t busy, if you would like to have dinner, maybe?” Bond asked, impressively clumsily.

Well.

It was a bold move, and Bond had earned points through deigning to ask rather than assume. “Go on,” he shrugged, with a sideways smile. “Why not? Time and place?”

"I could cook - if you like," Bond tried, Q’s eyebrow raised. "Or we can go out. Whatever you like."

"You can cook?" Q asked, pleasantly surprised. This was definitely going as a tick in the ‘Bond’ column.

Bond shrugged, trying for a slightly more debonair smile. “Cook, bake, even been known to wash up on occasion,” he smirked; Q’s smile developed into a grin. “Sound alright?”

"How could I refuse?"


	111. The Rehab Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi Jen! First, I’d like to say your work is brilliant and its inspiring me to work more on my own fics/fanfics. <3 Second of all, I have a prompt, if you care to fill it. :D It’s 00Q: the events of Skyfall have wrecked havoc on Bond’s psyche, and the drinking/drug problems he showed signs of earlier in the film have become a full-fledged addiction. MI6 has him taken off duty and put into rehab, and Q comes to visit regularly to keep his spirits up. – myonlyrealityislove

Q settled down in the far corner of the sofa next to Bond, his smile light and friendly; the facility liked to inspire openness and a lack of formality, thus the pair were situated in front of a fire, warm and cosy, and so far from Bond’s usual idea of a good time it was laughable. “Hey,” Q said lightly.

“Hello,” Bond returned, with a slight smirk. “How’re you doing?”

Q shrugged slightly, still settling himself down in the fabric-covered cushions, practically swallowed by the damn things. “I’m doing well, actually,” he replied, sounding almost surprised by the admission. “Work is going ridiculously well, I’ve actually slept for a full eight hours in the past week, it could be a lot worse. And you?”

Bond’s smile was faintly ironic. “I’m James Bond, and I’m a recovering alcoholic,” he parroted, in a tone that reflected just how damn bored he was. “I think I’ve exhumed every possible skeleton from closets I didn’t even know I had.”

“The raging alcoholism?”

“Tempered; they won’t give me any,” Bond teased, eliciting a small laugh from Q. “Why are you here, Q?”

Q raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I can’t come and see my favourite double-oh when he’s off active duty?” he queried, tone politely sceptical. “I thought you may appreciate somebody looking after you.”

“I bet you say that to all the agents.”

“Only the double-ohs,” Q returned, green eyes dancing in the light. “And particularly those who need somebody to remind them that they’re still wanted, outside of this little microcosm.”

Bond smiled sideways. “You know, that was nearly flattering.”

“Very nearly,” Q agreed, mimicking him. “But not quite. You may be an alcoholic, with low self-esteem and a god complex, but I’m not going to keep buttering your ego.”

Thankfully, Bond took the quips in good humour. “That’s what my files say?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, I’m telling you what I know to be true,” Q returned without missing a beat. Bond snorted, as Q’s mobile rang.

Both sighed a little, Q deflating visibly. “Duty calls,” he said sadly, nodding at the phone. Q smiled apologetically.

“I will be back,” he promised, reaching out a hand to Bond’s knee; he placed his own hand on top, massaging the joints very gently before letting him retreat again. “Look after yourself. Stay stable, you’ll be back on grid before long.”

Bond gave him a mocking salute, Q collecting his things together. Watching him go was immensely sad, but Bond was getting used to that, now.

Not long left, and he would be back.

\---

"007, reporting for duty," Bond smirked, as Q typed furiously at seemingly three keyboards at once. Q didn’t even blink in his direction, simply continued, barking orders down his comms.

Bond raised an eyebrow, aware he was hovering, and that Q was too occupied to even look; after a few more moments, he turned on his heel, ready to leave.

“Bond!” Q called in that moment, a slight smirk on his face. “Welcome back.”

“Laid back as ever,” Bond replied, looking at the pandemonium that was Q-branch.

Q quirked a smile, typing frenetically. “We are a calm, organised…”

Something crashed off a table, and there was odd, rising smell of smoke. “Oh, fuck it,” Q snapped, shaking his head. “Nigel, go, deal with it,” he snapped at a minion. “Now. Bond, I will have your weaponry with you in half an hour. For now, be useful or begone.”

"Begone. Only you."

“ _Out_.”

-

Half an hour later, Q walked out of his branch, his hair stuck up in a manner reminiscent of an electrocuted hedgehog. He was met with Bond, who handed him a cup of tea with a playful grin.

Q took a sip, all but shivering with delight. “Are you alright?” Bond asked.

"Shouldn’t I be asking you that?"

Bond shrugged. “I’m…” he stalled, shrugging again, his expression enough to give Q pause. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Not wholly convincing, I must say,” he commented drily, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Were you given the all-clear?” he asked, watching the slight tremor in Bond’s hand.

The agent swiftly stole his hand off the table and sent him a quick grin. “Of sorts.”

“James, you can’t sacrifice your health because of some damn mission,” Q repremanded.

Bond’s expression snapped into something colder, unpleasant. “I am fine,” he stated flatly. “I want to work, and I will work.”

“Okay,” Q nodded, reaching for the briefcase; Bond eyed it hungrily, listening like a child with presents as Q went through the various items, with brief descriptions. “Good to have you back. Do be careful, 007.”

“Aren’t I always?” Bond purred, and vanished.

-

“A drink, Mr…?” the woman asked, leaning over the bar; snow spattered her eyelashes from the Arctic winter outside, Russian, the ice of vodka and thin smoke in the air.

Bond looked from the woman to the alcohol, swallowing slightly. “Bond. James Bond,” he nodded. “And I’m not here to drink.”

“Well then, I won’t be here to talk,” the woman told him teasingly, clicking her fingers; the bartender placed a martini in front of him. Stirred, of bloody course, but it was a  _goddamn_  martini.

His hand brushed the glass.

One glass. For the mission.

For Queen and Country.

Just one.

-

“Who’s there?” Q asked, as his office door was pushed open. It was late; most of his branch had either left or migrated to some form of bed if they were on call.

“Honey, I’m home,” Bond called as Q relaxed, “Got you a present.”

"Oh?" Q smiled, as Bond came into view.

The smile faded swiftly as he looked up. Bond was a visible wreck, in a way Q recognised only too well; uninjured, but smiling in a way that spoke ill, clothes in a disarray that didn’t suit, smile too wide and voice too loud.

Bond placed a handful of pieces of equipment on the table, “Intact!” he crowed, before giving Q a semi-conspiratorial shrug. “Mostly.”

“Are you… are you alright?” Q asked softly, not even looking at the equipment.

"Fine, I’m absolutely fine," Bond replied. "Don’t I get a thank you?"

"What?" Q asked, confused. "Oh? The equipment. Yes, excellent. Thanks."

"You don’t sound very grateful," Bond told him, anger rising under his voice, a steady crescendo. "I went to a lot of fucking  _effort_  to get that shit back here.”

"Thank you, truly - it’s nice to have it returned." Q assured him, hands held up in mock surrender that was not entirely mocking.

Bond laughed, as he moved around to Q’s side of the desk. “Unlike normal, you mean?” he asked dangerously, as Q shifted uncomfortably

“You are an active agent, losses are to be expected…”

"Losses? Yes, because I  _lose_  them, they don’t go missing for a good reason, like I’m being chased by a fucking psychopath or stolen by thugs or…” Bond slammed his fist down, making Q jump. “It’s not like I’m not  _careful_.”

Q shifted backwards, out of his chair, as Bond continued to rant; his voice was rising, Q seriously debating using his emergency alarm, Bond looming closer with a voice like wrath incarnate. “… All this  _shit_  I go through, that I do, and no one ever…”

Bond slammed a fist forward and Q instinctively flinched, ducking to one side, breath releasing in a sharp exhale as Bond’s fist hit the wall.

Q breathed raggedly, and Bond sank to his knees. “I’m sorry,” he managed, almost blankly. “Q, I am so…  _so_ fucking…  _fuck_ … I’m sorry.”

Abruptly, the greatest agent in the secret service was crying –  _sobbing -_  in Q’s office. “It’s alright James, I promise - it’s ok,” Q managed, shock rendering his movements very stilted as he tentatively shifted to the floor next to him.

"I could have… I nearly." Bond was saying, looking at the younger man through faintly bloodshot eyes.

Q nodded quietly, sharply. “You didn’t,” he pointed out, almost coldly. “And you wouldn’t, I know that. But  _fuck_ , James, you left rehab too early. You need to go back, and get  _well_. Please.”

"Yeah…" Bond managed, "Would you, could you visit me again?" he asked, not looking at Q.

"Of course." Q promised, holding even tighter as Bond sobbed in his arms.


	112. The Medieval Royalty Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I get a Medieval RoyaltyAU where Q is the newly ascended young King. Its common knowledge that he only got there by spreading his legs for Lord Bond (who of course controls a massive army). The more salacious the rumors the better. But in actuality, I want the relationship between Bond/Q to be quite loving. Like Bond is not just there for the sex, he really does admire Q for his brains and is in fact very loyal to him. – anon

Q lay, stretched out across his bed, body warmed by sex and cooled by the silken sheets. The windows allowed a cool breeze across his skin as he clicked out his joints. Bond lay next to him, pulling the man firmly onto his body. The sun hung low in the sky, it would soon be autumn, but for now the lazy heat of summer invaded the castle, inspiring apathy and content.

It was common knowledge that Q was nothing. A simply mouthpiece, while Lord Bond pulled the strings from behind, took apart the young man for his own pleasures before scripting his words. Q was a whore, had been with everybody in the Chambers, enjoyed sodomy and all these other things a young Prince should have abhorred.

That was, supposedly, common knowledge.

Bond and Q themselves knew better.

“Off, James,” the young King ordered, rolling out of Bond’s arms as he chuckled.

"What happened to ‘I simply do not  _feel_  the heat?” he teased as Q arched beautifully against the bed.

Q shot him a devilish smile. “That was before you heated my body with your devilish ways,” he teased sideways.

Bond laughed lightly, body curled around the young King; Q lay back apathetically, sighing out softly. “I have work to do,” he mused aloud, eyes shutting. motion languid as Bond’s body continued to warm him. There was a gentleness, kindness, that Q had never expected from Lord Bond.

"Not today, surely," Bond groaned. "Feast today," he pointed out, only to have a beautifully embroidered cushion thrown directly into his face.

The pillow was thwarted mid-throw, Bond laughing while Q’s voice went rather stern. “If I stopped working everytime there was a feast, I would never work. Simply spend my days in an addled haze.”

"Like every other king, you mean?" Bond teased.

“Quite,” Q smirked.

Their setup was perfect; while everyone thought Bond ran the show, Q was left alone, without the stress of hoards trying to alter his opinion or undermine him. Less of a threat, and completely underestimated - he was getting more done from the shadows than generations before him. His pride mattered remarkably little.

Speaking of which, his manservant had appeared to dress him. Time to perform.

"But darling, there is a feast tonight…" Q whined with a childish pout; Bond tried to suppress a chuckle with some difficulty, as their accustomed masks slipped on.

"And your people need to see you," he replied, arm wrapping around Q as the servant approached. "No, the green one," he instructed firmly on Q’s behald, indicating to a different tunic.

Q batted his eyelids with a simpering smile - too much, Bond thought - but said nothing as they were both dressed.

"What on earth would I do without you," Q smiled, returning to Bond’s side as the dressing finished.

The servant left, a slight curl of disgust on his lips; Q relaxed immediately, the smile dying back to something less obsequious and more genuine. “You would be a bloody formidable tyrant,” Bond told him in their quiet, kissing him on the forehead as Q laughed.

"Bloody good thing you’re not going anywhere then," he commented, pecking him on the cheek as he ran a hand through his hair. "See you this evening,"

\---

There was a war brewing. Q could feel it. He sat at the window, looking down in the last of the Autumn light. The kingdom was bathed in orange glow, from the busstling town through the endless fields. Farm workers were leaving, Q watched as the worked left, little ants in their fields.

Bond was behind him, sat at the desk with quill in hand. “I need to give them an answer, Q,” he said quietly, voice heavy with worry.

Q sighed slightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He desperately didn’t want to incite a war, not with the country in the state it was, but could definitely not afford to concede defeat.

It would take planning, arming. It was possible, just, but it would be a stretch and Q needed to be a figurehead. “Alright,” he said, with quiet control. “Inform them that they cannot encroach on our territory any further without military repercussions. We will need an envoy. I want to go in person.”

"Are you sure that’s a good idea?" Bond asked. Q raised an eyebrow, meeting only the calm gaze of his partner. Only Bond asked that question - though truly only he needed to. He had a point of course, as far as his subjects were aware Q knew about as much about war as he did the kitchen duties.

Q nodded after a moment, with quiet determination. “Tactful though our arrangement is for societal reasons, this is something which transcends,” he explained quietly. “I’m going to need PR, I’ll be honest with that, but I know what I’m doing - when I diffuse all of this, I should be able to rally full support from the country regardless of what happens over the near year or so.”

"It will be a popular war - you are lucky in that sense," Bond agreed, looking over his parchments. "They will be happy to fight, it is for their homes afterall."

"Precisely," Q agreed, wrapping his dressing gown tighter around him slim body. "I have a few things to deal with, I will unfortantely have to cut off a few of my less salubrious contacts. There are various trade rings that I need to disband, they haven’t been paying their taxes."

Bond smiled sideways, shrugging slightly. “This is yours to command,” he said, with a slight bow to his lover and his king. “Just be safe, won’t you?”

Q smiled, and kissed him quickly. “I’ll do my best.”


	113. The Werewolf!Bond Pelt Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Werewolf 00Q: Werewolves shed their wolf pelts in order to make their dens smell like home but they also shed them to give as gifts to mates. It’s supposed to be an honor to find a wolf pelt sitting on your doorstep. It means family and security in Q’s mountain town but Q is terrified. He knows the white pelt left on his doorstep belongs to the pack’s alpha and he’s seen how ruthless the man can be. Q thinks that kind of instinct would be all he’d face in the den but James proves him wrong. – anon

_Oh my god_.

The pelt was pure, snow white. Huge, of course, and slightly matted. “Oh  _fuck_ ,” Q breathed, hands reaching out for the thing, brushing the fur with the tips of his fingers and trying not to hyperventilate “This is not fair. This is  _not fair_.”

True, it was beautiful. True, Q could stare it forever and smelt right and was just  _right_ and yet it was terribly wrong because this could  _not be happening to him_.

“Find him!” his friend Eve told him excitedly, when Q admitted that he had found a pelt.

The problem was not finding him. Everybody knew who the werewolves were, and mostly who was who within their pack. Many men and women from around the country had been turned, inflating the pack to a formidable collection of brilliant humans and wolves. They kept their human partners – their  _mates_  – throughout the days and nights, human and wolf form, utter devotion to a single human being.

Apparently, now including Q.

There was no choice involved; wolves found their mates through scent, through an innate knowledge of compatibility and care. Q had never heard of a human approached by the Pack who had then been unhappy.

The problem was that the white pelt, especially one of that size, was unmistakeable.

Q didn’t  _want_  to find him. James Bond was, in human and wolf form, a ruthless type of man. A hunter, who killed better and faster than any other, stripped bodies of flesh within a handful of seconds. He was terrifying, brutal.

Somehow, Q doubted that would change in his home life.

Eventually, Q was found. Bond knocked on the door and extended a hand, and Q took it because he really didn’t want to die, not on his own doorstep. “Bond. James Bond.”

“Q,” Q replied quietly, swallowing slightly, refusing to allow any fear to show through. He had no choice, now. Bond would pursue the man he had chosen for his mate to the ends of the earth, and Q knew he could – and would – live through it.

Bond wasn’t moving.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, fingers reaching up to trace Q’s face, skim over the cheekbones with impossible gentleness. Q stayed almost painfully still, trying not to flinch at the touch. Bond raised an eyebrow. “You’re afraid.”

There was no sense in lying. Q shrugged lopsidedly, watching Bond very carefully, surprised by the curious pain he could see in the werewolf’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Bond just watched him. “I would never harm you,” he said quietly, hand dropping to his side. “I’m sorry. I know all of this can be a shock…”

Q shrugged again, not sure how to express that he was, perhaps, wary of a werewolf who could kill him without blinking.

“Will you come with me?” Bond asked, a very human look of uncertainty in his eyes.

Q raised an eyebrow. “Will you let me  _not_?” he asked rhetorically.

Bond considered for a moment, ice blue eyes not deviating from Q’s. “I would like you to come, to see, make yourself it isn’t what you want,” he tried, tone careful, almost wary. “We are bound, in a way I don’t understand and would never pretend to, and I doubt I’ll be able to stay out of your life. But…”

It was a shock, to say the least. This was  _not_  what he had expected.

Q sighed a little.

Bond’s expression brightened with almost childish delight as Q extended a hand. “Go on,” he said lightly. “It couldn’t hurt.”

\---

The werewolf caves were surprisingly lovely; the human mates maintained it, and the werewolves themselves brought back infinite amounts of pretty things to furnish it.

Q chatted to a few of the other mates; they were a collection of very different people, all sorts. A local doctor, students, a lady in her sixties who had been with the werewolves all her life; they all stayed in the caves during the height of the full moon, before returning to their homes with the werewolves in human form.

It was difficult, as far as Q was concerned. To be fair, it was a perfect environment; he was calm, at peace,  _happy_. Honestly, the happiest Q could recall being. Bond was only a few hours away from his expected tenure in werewolf form – it tended to last four days, during the peak days of a full moon – and Q was prepared.

Watching a pack of werewolves shift, almost in tandem, was an impossible sight.

Men and women – and Q found it more than surprising, that there were females in the pack – shivered. Q watched Bond’s spine roll, bones extending, skin exploding outwards with fur, eyes turning darker and wider. “Fuck,” Q breathed, as he stared at a white pelt, the wolf inside it a truly stupendous size.

He was  _breathtaking_.

“Oh,” he murmured, and reached out a hand to Bond’s nose; the wolf nuzzled against his hand, a surreal sensation, warm and soft against his skin.

Q could hear the low rumble of his breath, the scent of him, familiar and  _safe_. He would always be safe, now. Bond would make certain of it. Packs allowed a family, no loneliness, a community to operate and be cared for in.

And James. James Bond, who was curiously gentle, who seemed to understand that it was far from easy. A man he didn’t know, except through a worrying reputation that he seemed to be intent on denying as far as Q was concerned.

“I will never hurt you,” Bond had said quietly, firmly, when they first met, when Bond had shown him everything.

Q watched his werewolf, stroked him, smiling despite himself.


	114. The Troubled Teen!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond teaches at a high school. Q (whatever name) is a troubled student- he refuses to be involved, or turn in homework, and as a result, is failing most of his classes. He is bullied by other students. Maybe there’s a drug problem, self-harm, eating disorder- go wild. Basically his parents and teachers have written him off. Bond doesn’t like seeing him so isolated and tries to get him to open up. It never seems like he is making any headway but he feels like it’s desperately important he tries. – jswezey

“Q, can I have a word?”

The boy didn’t even look up. Everybody else filed out – Bond noted the jostling, the lack of care, the general attitude of his classmates that Q simply wasn’t there – and Q sloped to the front of the classroom, eyes down. “Yes?” he asked angularly, tone low, somehow confrontational while being utterly flat.

Bond sighed slightly. “The split lip?”

The boy shrugged slightly. “I got hit,” he muttered. “Not exactly novel. It’s fine. Can I go now?”

“Not quite,” Bond told him, even as they boy made to move; for an odd moment, he seemed almost surprised that Bond had bothered to call him back. “Q, you’re very thin.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “I noticed. And?”

“You’re not eating,” Bond stated; he had seen the boy at lunches, avoiding both sustenance and other human beings. His peers were a vile collective, most of whom took malicious joy in either feigning Q’s nonexistence, or beating him in corridors and behind the science block.

Everybody knew. The teachers knew. Q’s  _parents_  knew. But somewhere, the boy had slipped through every possible net, been allowed to keep on falling. “Correct,” Q retorted, to Bond’s accusation, and Bond heaved a sigh.

“If this carries on, I’ll be taking action,” he warned; Q didn’t respond. “Not to mention that I’ve not had most of your recent set essays. Any reason?”

Q stared at the desk, fingers dancing arrythmically. “I didn’t do them,” he replied calmly. Bond caught a glimpse of jagged red-black, the whiter tones that blended with his skin, a past etched into him; Q noticed where his eyes had fell, unselfconsciously pulling down his sleeves a little further.

“Q, I want to help you,” Bond told him carefully.

A small, disparaging snort, but otherwise no response.

“Q…”

“Can I go now?” Q interrupted, looking up properly for the first time; Q’s eyes were bright and green and beautiful, dark and bleak, vulnerable but intact.

Bond knew damn well he wouldn’t get anything further out of Q. He simply refused to talk, for whatever reasons. He didn’t want to be, or engage, or be coaxed out of whatever hell he was used to. “If you need anything, find me,” he said, layering enough firmness into his tone to try and make it non-negotiable.

Q shrugged, and – the moment Bond allowed him – vanished.

\---

Q was noticeably becoming ever more reticent. From the tentative start, he had regressed further and further into himself, going from monosyllabic to entirely silent. Teachers visibly worried, Bond in particular, wondering just how far it would stretch and how to get through.

He refused to talk. There were no names, faces, culprits. When teachers contacted his parents – with immense difficulty, given that they were perpetually working – they were informed that Q was in perfect control of his own life, and there was nothing to be gained by interference.  _In any case_ , they said, with sweet smiles and patronising tone, _he needs to learn to stand up for himself. This is good for him_.

Looking at Q, it was transparently obvious that it was a very long way from good.

“I want you to go to the medical room,” Bond told him shortly, stopping Q after a lesson.

The teenager heaved a weary sigh, sounding bored and dismissive, as though the entire confrontation was already passé. “Any particular reason?” he asked, voice drawling very slightly.

“You’re walking oddly, and you’re still losing weight,” Bond told him simply. “I’m not having this. I told you I would intervene, if I had to. They’re still bullying you, aren’t they?”

Q blinked, jaw slightly tight. “I don’t want your concern, or your pity,” he said sharply. “I am fine. I have no interest in causing a scene over irrelevancies. I will concede that I am underweight, but not dangerously so. My injuries are superficial, and of my own making. I am  _fine_.”

“Your parents don’t seem to have noticed,” Bond observed quietly.

Q let out an inadvertent snort. “I haven’t seen them in a fortnight,” he said coldly, glancing up at Bond, an angry and desperately confrontational expression drawn into his face. “They don’t come home. They’re never home.”

Bond nodded slightly, accepting the anger for what it was: a child, losing control by increments. Potential neglect, definite bullying, depression. Self-harming tendencies and what looked to be an eating disorder. “We’re going to the medical room,” Bond said simply, flatly. “After that, we’ll see. I’m not going to watch you do this any longer.”

Q blinked languidly, expression set. “Why the fuck do you care?”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Because somebody should,” he returned succinctly, and hauled the boy off to medical.

\---

Q looked utterly mutinous, jaw tight, dropped unceremoniously onto the medical room bed and generally looked over. “I’m fine, this is…”

The nurse just raised an eyebrow. “You’re certainly not fine,” she said primly, and pulled back slightly. “I’m not happy at all. I’m referring you on to your GP, and I’m going to have to talk to the Headmistress about your being bullied. I won’t mention anything specific of course, patient confidentiality, but this needs dealing with.”

Q refused to say a word.

The nurse sighed. “I may need to call your parents…”

“I want to talk to Mr Bond,” Q said abruptly.

It was impossible to get anything of Q from that point onward. He simply refused to respond in any way, shape or form. He barely blinked.

Bond walked in, sat opposite him. “You asked for me?” he enquired, voice relatively neutral.

Q just looked straight back.

“Q, I do have work, you know.”

“And I have problems that  _you_  wanted to get involved with,” Q parried, “so oddly enough, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Language.”

“English, usually.”

Bond let out a slow breath.

Q just smirked slightly. “Couldn’t resist,” he added, unrepentant. “Look. I don’t want this to be made into a huge deal, and it looks like you’re going to make it be one…”

“You’re ill. You’re hurting yourself. You need some form of help, Q, and your parents are doing  _nothing_. We’ve spoken to them in the past. I understand you’re going to the GP, and we’re going to need to follow this up – I’ll be speaking to the staff about monitoring you for further incidents with other students, and I’m going to offer up my office, if you’d like somewhere to go over breaks. I have an Ethernet cable you can borrow for your laptop, too.”

Q’s expression altered instantly. His grip on his bag – which had been tightly clasped to his chest all the while – became a little tighter.

Students were not supposed to have their own laptops in school. Really, they weren’t supposed to have phones either; they were to be handed in at the beginning of the day, and collected back at the end. Everybody ignored that rule though.

And Q ignored the laptop rule. He would have been pulled up on it a long time previously, but he seemed to be doing no harm with it. Bond wasn’t convinced that many staff members had even noticed.

“I’m not going to confiscate it,” Bond told him calmly. “I’m very happy to let you use it.  _On the condition that_  you start doing the rest of your schoolwork. Essays. You’re clever, Q, and the rubbish you’re handing in is frankly insulting.”

Q didn’t give him an inch. Bond decided not to worry too much about getting a response.

“I hope all of that is clear. Now off you go, and I’ll see you in class tomorrow morning. My office is open.”

Unsurprisingly, Q was out the door in a heartbeat.

-

The next day, Bond was more than a little surprised to find that Q had turned in the very first essay of the term.

He was unsurprised – but utterly delighted – to find that it was  _exemplary_.


	115. The Artemis Fowl Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Jen! I have hearts in my eyes for you and your writing! Would you please write a fill about Artemis-Fowl!Q and Butler!Bond, who happens to be a retired 00 agent unbeknownst to Q. Bond has always been fondly exasperated with Q’s exploits, but he thinks Q has finally gone off his adolescent rocker when Q starts talking about fairy gold. Oh and Moneypenny is Holly, of course. – anon

Bond was one of the highest-trained bodyguards in the world, bar none. The blue diamond tattooed on his arm was indicative of the type of prowess few could understand, least of all his overly intellectual charge, who was concernedly amassing the wealth of a small nation under his roof.

Aurum potestas est. Loosely speaking; gold is power. Young Master Fowl – who preferred to known by his pseudonym, Q – was certainly rich in both. Perhaps to a degree that could cause concern, given his tender age.

“Bond, I have a new mission,” he said calmly, green eyes watching the man who was his pseudo father figure, his confidante and protector, partner in crime in every sense conceivable. “I intend to divest the fairy people of a decent proportion of their gold.”

Bond’s initial response was in active concern. “Fairy people,” he echoed, expression wholly neutral.

Q shot him an arrogant, sideways smirk. “Indeed,” he replied easily, clearly relishing Bond’s expression of absolute confusion. “There is more in heaven and earth.”

“Clearly,” Bond replied drily. “That as may be, could I ask for an explanation?”

The best way to get through to Q; direct, slightly flattering, allowing him to sink into his favourite pastime – discussing a new theorem. Bond blinked as Q explained; species of subterranean beings, living apart from human influence, undetected.

Until now.

“Proof?” Bond asked, a little wearily; this was all a little too outlandish for him to wrap his head around just yet. Q was a creature of logic, not this kind of fanciful nonsense. It just felt a little worrying, overall.

Q grinned, all teeth, passion all but blazing in his expression. “We need to go to Vietnam,” he announced, casual as you like.

Bond cursed several gods for landing him with such a damned impossible principle. Vietnam. A white, skinny British boy in Vietnam. They would be conspicuous to the point of hilarity. “Why?” he asked, betraying nothing.

A foolish question; Q was immediately off again, detailing language and ‘books’ and all manner of small insanities, all wrapped around stories of a hidden creature in Ho Chi Minh City, a healer, paid only in nettle wine.

“I believe she is where to begin,” Q trailed off.

Bond flicked through options. Q was a hyperintelligent being, more so than he could begin to contemplate. He had a duty to care for the boy, who would undoubtedly travel to Vietnam solo if Bond voiced objections. Ultimately, he could do nothing.

“I’ll organise the logistics,” Bond said consequently, wondering how in the hell he would explain it all to Juliet.

\---

The hag was, it transpired, a useful investment; Q returned to Ireland with a series of photographs, looking more alive than Bond could recall seeing him in a long while. “This is excellent,” he mused quietly, flicking through them on his laptop, eyes narrowed. “The pieces are coming together, Bond.”

Bond just sat back, feeling vaguely weary. Vietnam was not the easiest or simplest place to navigate, especially not when his young charge was quite so difficult to protect. “Our next move?” he asked.

Q glanced up, excitement turning his green eyes electric. “Translation,” he said, breathing oddly heavily with sheer energy. “I translate it, then I will have access to the People.”

Fairies, Bond reminded himself. If it were not for the hag itself, for the conversation and Q’s basic brilliance, he would have been sceptical to the point of contemplating medical intervention.

And yet, it was Q. He was always, irrefutably and entirely brilliant. Often unexpectedly so, and in areas Bond would not have credited. “I’ll remain on standby,” he said, almost sarcastically, with a touch of dryness Q actually rather appreciated.

“Do,” Q murmured, and disappeared into ideas.

-

An upsettingly short amount of time later found Q and Bond camping out, Bond with a tranquilliser gun and Q with enough tea in his bloodstream to keep him awake until the turn of the next century. “The Ritual,” was pretty much all Bond had gotten out of him; now, they were expecting some form of creature to appear, and something to happen with an acorn.

Which was moot, given that Bond was simply going to shoot on sight.

It was actually a little surprising, when a damned  _fairy actually appeared_.

Bond breathed out calmly, and shot her as she bent down.


	116. The Infected!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can we get a sci-fi 00Q au? Let’s say humanity is at war with an alien race and one of the ways they fight is they infest humans with a parasite n take over. Q is one such unfortunate & Bond catches him. Standing orders is to kill infected humans (supposedly impossible turning them back). But something about infected!Q makes Bond decide not to. With Bond’s help he overcomes the infection and becomes human again? - anon

The boy was young, very young, and looked more frightened than Bond could recall ever seeing another human being look before. He cowered in his corner, arms curled over his head, refusing to show Bond his eyes.

It could only mean one thing. Bond sighed. “Last chance,” he said firmly, long scimitar-like blade in his hands, his primary weapon.

The boy looked up.

Green eyes, so very green, almost transparently pale. The sclera had turned a deep purple, juxtaposing angrily, an indication of the parasite that lived in his body now, had taken him over.

So young, and so very beautiful. He looked at Bond bravely now he was exposed, almost steady, opening his body like a lotus to give Bond an easy kill. Everybody knew that the parasite could not be removed, or killed. Q was infected, a badly mutated form of the human race, and could not be allowed to survive.

Bond lowered his weapon, and the boy watched him with sheer disbelief, entirely mute. “What’s your name?” he asked in a neutral tone.

“Q,” the boy replied very quietly, watching Bond like he was about to attack, unsurprisingly. He kept his body pressed against the wall. “Erm… sorry, but aren’t you about to kill me?”

It was something of a heartbreaking sentence, from a boy like Q. Bond sighed a little. “No,” Bond told him quietly. “You’re a kid, I don’t kill children.”

“I’m older than I look,” Q said defensively, suddenly cringing as he realised what he’d said. He watched Bond with sheer terror. “Please,” he breathed. “I’m not going to go feral, I promise,  _please_.”

Bond sighed, rolled his eyes a little. “Calm,” he said firmly. “I have no interest in killing you, unless you want it. The parasite…”

“I know it’s there, it’s painful to fight,” Q said quietly, steadily. “I’m still me, though. If I start… if I lose control, I’ll tell you, I swear. I don’t want to hurt anybody, I really don’t…”

Bond hushed him gently, moved to rest on his haunches. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Bond repeated, as steadily as he could. “I want to get you help, if I can. You don’t seem like a homicidal maniac.”

“I wasn’t, last I checked,” Q said with a tremulous smile, an iron back to his tone that Bond found himself rather fond of. He blinked slightly, forehead creased. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Bond. James Bond,” Bond replied easily, extending a hand.

Q glanced at it, sighed a little. Placed his hand in Bond’s, and agreed to trust him.

\---

The boy lay semi-conscious, shivering out of his skin. The purple in his eyes had spread to his nails, even his blood tainted a curious shade, the entire set of his skin taking on a faintly lilac edge.

“Q?” Bond asked; Q’s eyes opened instantly, fixing on Bond. A moment of un-recognition, before his body relaxed abruptly. He swallowed, twisting over slightly. “Are you alright?”

They had managed a handful of days. Bond was part of an extermination collection that dared live outside the reaches of Safe Zones; the house was something suburban and dull, but had enough tinned supplies to keep them both going.

Bond was very aware that soon, he would almost certainly need to kill Q. The boy was fighting, valiantly hard, but the parasite was eating away at him; true, he was lasting longer than most Bond had seen, but he was still gradually slipping away.

He was clever, sharp, funny. The sarcasm was acerbic and genuinely brilliant, and the more time Bond spent with him, the more appalling it seemed that the boy would need to die.

Of course, Bond had immunity. All of the remaining humans did; the vaccine had taken too long to develop, and couldn’t be given to everybody. It was done in very unethical ways; those who needed to protect the human race were dosed first, meaning Bond was in the first wave. Anybody who was ‘necessary’ was saved first, followed by whole families, and anybody with the money to bribe.

Q, a twenty-two year old computer technician with no family nor a penny to his name, had been overlooked.

Like so many others, he could have been so much,  _done_  so much.

“I don’t want to die,” he admitted quietly one evening, long fingers curled around a flask of soup. “I really don’t. Sorry, I’m not saying that to make you feel horrible, I just…”

Bond nodded, effectively cutting off his speech. “It isn’t a pleasant job,” he conceded quietly, and drank his own, keeping his expression professionally neutral. “Unfortunately, without any type of cure, it’s not safe. We need to kill the infected, or the parasite could mutate…”

“I know,” Q nodded, forehead creased. He took a breath, and both pretended not to hear the slight hitch of breath. It was a long while before he spoke again, his voice a bare whisper: “What if I’m it?” he asked, shoulders hunched. “The mutation. If this is it, if it’ll manifest and I could hurt you, and…”

He broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose. His nail beds had turned a rich, gorgeous shade of purple. “I don’t want to die,” he repeated again, pointlessly.

Bond looked out of the window, and tried not to think.


	117. The Merman Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearie! Can i just say i absolutely love your fics! They’re amazing. I know you’ve probably gotten sooo many prompts but i would love it if you would fill one for me! Bond is an esteemed pirate captain. Q is a mermaid, which are considered dangerous and seductive beasts. Any form of relationship with them is forbidden, But bonds never been one for rules.. Thank you! <3 – anon

It had begun when Bond had been swimming. They had found a small cove, mostly sheltered. It was still earlier, his crew setting up for the next day’s sail. The Captain, however, took the chance to dive into the transparent warm waters.

It was a sharp contrast to the otherwise oppressive heat; a few confident strokes took in further out, strong body elegant in the spray, eventually taking a rest on a rock outcropping. He could see to the edges of the horizon, sun sinking behind him.

From below, Bond felt a light tug at his ankle; he kicked it off initially, assuming some sort of weed had snagged him. The grip did not loosen, and as Bond looked down, he saw a young man – barely more than a boy – holding his leg underneath the water.

Bond sharply pulled upwards; his leg freed, the force bringing the face of the boy upwards, out of the water, dark hair scattering drops of fractured light into the water. The laughed, a bell-like sound, leaning up out of the water as he curiously looked over Bond’s body.

 The Captain was naked, naturally. The crew bathed nude most of the time, and the cove was otherwise deserted. Now, the boy’s strange gaze on him, Bond felt oddly exposed. He looked over, to find the boy gone. He blinked, only to find arms wrapped around him from behind, a cool body against his own.

Bond took a breath, an instant before he was plummeted into the water.

Merpeople. Would target sailors, and attempt to drown them, take them to the deepest depths of the water and leave them there, rotting.

They spiralled together, the boy pulling him deep into the depths of the clear sea. Bubbles were leaking from Bond’s mouth as he fought, kicking hard at anything he could find. The sunlight shone, dimmed through the waters, Bond focused on it, trying to pull himself up towards it.

The boy leaned in, and - to Bond’s unending confusion - kissed him.

Air expanded through Bond’s lungs, quelling the instant surge of panic; he was breathing, the boy giving him air, letting his body keep working.

In the moment of clarity, he looked at the mermaid; he was still smiling, an eyebrow quirked in a curious way, as though he was confused by Bond’s panic. His hair swirled slowly, a halo in the darker waters, but his emerald green eyes shone.

Merman, really, Bond realised. He was a beautiful creature, skin so pale despite the sun’s burning rays. The mouthful of air wasn’t going to last long though and with one final effort, he kicked away, upwards. Finally his head broke the surface of the water, air filling his lungs.

The merman followed, still with an expression of quiet confusion. “I wanted to show you the ocean,” he said softly, without a word of introduction. “You travel on it, never seeing it, with such joy, such love. I could show you more. My gift.”

Bond just rolled his eyes, swimming to another rock, and getting up quickly; he stood a better chance of defence when out of water. “Your type exists to kill men like me.”

The merman followed, gliding through the water. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking up at Bond. “Why would I kill you?” he asked, seemingly confused.

"Fun?" Bond suggested, looking down at the other being.

The merman tilted his head slightly, green eyes wide and sad. “It is not ‘fun’ to watch a beautiful thing perish,” he said softly, lyrically, voice like the motion of the water around them.

"Then don’t drag me underwater," Bond told him, almost joking. He hadn’t spoken to anyone other than his crew for nearly a year, and the dull-eyed prostitutes in ports never really wanted to chat.

He smiled, and the green eyes turned all but electric, like the phosphorescence that gathered on the waves sometimes, in the evenings. His pale hand moved closer to Bond, stroking along the tanned skin, almost brown. “You seek treasures,” he stated, without question. “I can show you.”

"Does it involve me in any way being underwater?" Bond asked, smirking slightly.

"The treasure is underwater…" the merman told him, tilting his head. "Though, you could follow me - in a small boat, I could dive for it and bring it up to you. Or I can give you air, like before. That is how we can work. Your kind distrust it, you perish of fear, and do not trust us."

Bond smiled, and nodded slightly. “I think we could work with either,” he conceded, fingers brushing the beautiful creature’s cheek, the sharp plane of his white cheek, the dark hair wet and curling about his face. “Do you have a name?”

"I’m Q," he replied softly, like the calm after an ocean storm. "And you are Captain James Bond, pirate. I will be seeing you again."

Bond didn’t have the chance to say another word; the merman slid back from him, spine arched to plunge backwards into the water, his tail - foam green - silhouetted against the sky before he disappeared.

\---

 

The treasure was certainly impressive, Bond mused, as he watched the merman pile glinting lumps of gold and gems into his small row boat. The boy had refused to appear for any of his crew, and so Bond had come alone.

The merman was still entrancingly, lethally beautiful. “Q, we’re intending to set sail,” he said quietly, a gentle murmur.

It was impressive, how fast the seas turned tumultuous. “You cannot leave me,” Q hissed, voice high and screeching. “You will  _not_  leave.”

Bond braced himself as the waves rose, rocking the small boat furiously. “I have given you all that you asked, all your treasure,” Q growled, pupils swollen until his eyes were nothing but blackness. “And you repay me by leaving?”

“I can’t stay,” Bond replied, trying desperately to stay afloat.

Q let out a short, desperate wail. “You have to stay,” he screamed, the voice bouncing out and over the water, livid and wanting, torn between naked fury and a keening, bleak horror. “I chose you. I  _chose_  you, and you cannot leave me.”

"I’m flattered, Q really - very flattered," Bond tried as the boat rocked almost completely over. "But I’m a pirate, not to mention I live on land. Dry land," Bond told him. Q’s tail whipped beneath him angrily.

"You have spent more time in the sea than on land for the past few years, you love it - you love it as I do, as my kind do, you would be welcomed, adored."

“I’d also be dead!” Bond managed, furious and desperate and brilliant.

Q shook his head frantically. “I will show you ways to survive, I can keep you safe _always_ ,” he said insistently, white froth gathering on the water. “Trust me. Let me show you, James Bond. You can live, you will live, and you will be mine always.”

"No Q, I can’t, I…"

Whatever he was about to say was swallowed by the water that overwhelmed him, dragging him downwards.

\---

Bond, unsurprisingly, panicked.

The water closed around him mercilessly, the true danger of the earth; Bond had known the world, and all the dangers of it, all his life. It was why Bond had chosen piracy. True adrenaline: the truisms of facing a danger so profound and so  _immediate_.

Q dragged him deeper, infinitely so, and Bond fought and tried to kick him off, intent on dying like this, not like  _this_.

Abruptly, Bond was being kissed again, within the depths of the water.

Air; Q pulled back, eyes sharp, expression quite clearly stating  _I told you so_. Bond held it, cherishing the ability to  _not die_ , while Q’s dark hair was caressed by water, and he smiled sideways and stroked Bond’s skin, and the sensation was  _bizarre_. “I can show you how to live,” Q whispered, somehow  _audible_ , somehow communicating through the depths of the water. It was  _impossible_.

Yet Bond was still alive.

And the air didn’t seem to be running short. One kiss, and Bond was breathing, he was living.

“How?” he tried, just to see if he could.

Bubbles poured from his mouth, and Bond panicked, trying to breathe in while knowing he could not, knowing he would die if he tried to breathe in, and his heart was too-loud in his ears and nothing was  _working_  properly…

Q kissed him again, deeper, more passionately. Bond felt cold fingers grasping his face, pulling him close, his body sinking like a stone as he lost the ability to manoeuvre himself; Q guided him, took him deeper into the blackness, and Bond realised he didn’t _need_  to breathe. Somehow, oxygen remained in him, as though it never translated to an exhale, just stayed in him and kept him alive.

It was the single oddest thing that he had ever felt.

Q smiled at him, guileless, and just indicated around him; Bond looked, and couldn’t quite believe the sheer  _beauty_  of it all. “You can talk,” Q told him, lips framing words that seemed to echo in Bond’s head, not travel to him at all. “You will be safe. I will protect you. This is my world, James, and there is so much to  _see_.”

“How are you doing this?” Bond asked, experimental, unable to believe he  _could_  talk. It couldn’t be real, this could not be genuine. “Q… I can’t stay here, my body isn’t made for this…”

Q grinned. “Is it not?” he asked. “Look at yourself, James. You are alive. Your body can learn to breathe, learn to adapt. And you shall never leave me. We shall remain, eternal and immortal, sharing our lives and our beings. Everything I am is yours, and I will never allow you to be apart from me.”

Bond didn’t quite know what to do.

A slow realisation dawned. “Your species,” he realised. “They don’t drown sailors. They steal them.”

“They love,” Q explained, sunlight glinting through water, green dappled light on chalk-white skin. “We can see, we  _know_ , when we find our mates. But your kind are untrusting. You are my mate, James Bond, and you shall stay.”

Bond could hardly argue. “Mates?”

Q smiled softly, pressed a gentle, watery kiss to Bond’s lips. “Mates,” he confirmed, and breathed love into Bond, keeping him safe, keeping him alive, for always.


	118. The Q/006 Mission Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are an amazing human being! Each one of your stories is unique. I know you must have a lot of work, so don’t worry take your time I am going to leave the prompt here. James has returned form a mission, just to find out that Q is on a field mission with 006. He follows the mission thought Q´s earpiece. – anon

James Bond managed to get out of medical without even an IV; a record for him, he was sure. It was a long haul, deep undercover for nearly three months. He considered the mission a moderate success: they captured several cells mid-deal, and Bond had escaped with all his limbs.

Now, all he wanted was his partner.

Q-branch was milling with the predictable minions; Bond nodded, they smiled and waved, and Bond quickly discovered that Q was not there. “He’s on a mission,” supplied R.

Bond turned to her with terrifying slowness. “Excuse me?”

“… 006 needed him on sight, they are following a drug’s baron, he’s got incredibly tight security…” R told him, all confidentiality going out the window at the sight of Bond’s face.

"Link me up," Bond told her, picking up a set of headphones and mic.

R didn’t even try to argue. “Alec, what the fuck do you think you are doing?” Bond asked sharply.

Alec didn’t answer for a moment. “Told you he’d be furious,” Q commented.

"I can hear you," Bond retorted drily. "Q, are you insane?"

"James, I am  _fine_ ,” Q told him firmly.

Alec smirked audibly. “Relax Bond, I am looking after him.”

"I am not a child, James," Q shot in, before Bond could reply. "I am perfectly able to do field work…"

Bond rolled his eyes. “This isn’t just field work, this is a bloody dangerous mission!” Bond replied, most of Q-branch now fixed on them.

"Could you save the domestic until we’re back in the UK?" Alec quipped drily. "Q?"

"Nearly done," he replied, too-casually, making Bond’s teeth curl slightly in anticipation.

"Alec?" Bond said, tone suddenly serious, professional. "You’ve got incoming on your left,"

"Shit," 006 muttered; Bond heard shuffling, then a few shots.

"Q?" Bond called, "Quartermaster,  _respond_!”

Alec’s voice, low, dangerous. “Bond, we have a problem.”

\---

 

“What the  _hell_  do you mean?” Bond hissed, livid, voice dangerously quiet in a way that usually made lesser man swallow and look very frightened indeed.

Alec’s voice was mostly calm, with only the slightest strains of stress. “Q is being held at gunpoint,” he explained, speaking slowly, Bond attempting to track him via the heat signals that Q-branch had scanned in. “I have sightline, they are unaware of my presence at this moment.”

Low speech, Arabic. “I don’t know Arabic,” Q told them mildly; a  _crack_ , and Q gasped in a breath.

“Pistol whip to right hand side, he’s fine,” Alec relayed, voice a low whisper as he tracked forward. “James, there are a lot of people, and I don’t have visuals on anyone further out.”

Bond scanned through everything Q-branch had acquired, R helpfully popping up other bits and pieces that could be pertinent. “At least three,” he replied after a moment; on Q’s comm, there was another slap, and Q took a moment longer to respond. His breathing was slightly heavy, almost laboured. “Q, hang on, we’re on our way.”

More sharp Arabic, Q managing to express that he didn’t bloody well  _speak_  Arabic.

A kick to the gut, by the sound of it; a low thump, and Q sucked in breath painfully, coughing. “Alec?” Bond asked sharply.

“I can’t take action without compromising Q,” he returned shortly, voice now beginning to show true strain. “I’m finding an angle, but they have a gun pointed at his bloody head. When they move, I’ll head in.”

Bond quieted for a moment. He had worked with Alec on countless missions, spanning back to their earliest days in MI6. He knew Alec better than anybody. “What aren’t you telling me?” Bond asked, more dangerously than Alec knew possible.

Q, abruptly,  _screamed_.

“Single bullet hit to the thigh,” Alec returned, quickly, breathing a little too rapid. “It’s not bleeding fast enough to have hit an artery. They need to stem the bleeding quickly, however.”

Low conferring, Q letting out soft whimpers over the comm system. “ _James_ ,” he breathed, barely audible, and Bond could see it: his lover, bleeding out over the concrete while Alec watched, waiting for a moment when he could finally intervene. “ _M’sorry._ ”

“Don’t be sorry, we’ll reach you,” Alec told him, seconded by Bond.

Bond didn’t say a word. Alec knew what he was doing.

A soft exhale, controlled, utterly calm.

Bullets cascaded everywhere, half-deafening through the earpieces. Bond could hear nothing of words or exhales, couldn’t keep track of Q’s slightly ragged breathing or Alec’s controlled breath as he rattled off his entire magazine.

Silence. “Hostiles eliminated. Medical evac needed  _now_. Q, look at me, good man. Stay with me…”

\---

The world passed by in a daze of pain and sweat. Strong arms were holding him, but not the right ones, not his arms.

“James?” Q repeated, over and over calling for the man who could make the pain stop, who  _always_  made the pain stop.

Alec. The wrong person. “Stay with me, come on Q, you want to see him again, you need to stay conscious…”

Q tried to shake his head; the dark was beckoning warmly, dark was where James lay, curled around him on a Sunday morning. If he slept now, he would wake with James there.

"Q?"

There was his voice now, calling through the warmth.

"Q don’t fall asleep, stay with me."

 “James,” Q mumbled. “Hurts…”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Bond said in his ear, with an almost-laugh. “It’ll hurt for a while, you wait until they get you in physical therapy.  _That_  hurts.”

Alec sighed in Bond’s ear. “Really tactful, James, well done,” he said with mild irritation, while Q managed a quietly bubbling laugh. “Q, don’t listen to your bastard of a boyfriend, they’ll hit you up with morphine.”

Q smiled slightly, invisible to Bond. “Don’t wanna die,” he said, with quiet determination. “Not gonna die. Don’t worry, James. Won’t die.”

“I’ll kill Alec, so two lives depend on the evac team getting there soon,” Bond quipped, Alec returning a raised eyebrow and small snort. “Seriously Alec, I’ll hunt you down.”

Q shook his head, hushed by Alec slightly. “Be nice,” he managed, voice becoming weaker by increments. “Don’t want either of you to be hurt… I like you… James more… sorry…”

"You had better," James tried to smile, hands tight on the table top.

"How long?" Alec asked, pressing the wound as firmly as he was able.

"Five minutes, just five more minutes. That’s the time it takes to warm up your soup Q, time it takes to shave."

Alec snorted, trying to keep the mood light as Q’s eyes began to lose focus. “It takes you five minutes?” Alec snorted. “Q, look at me. Good, much better, now don’t look away. I need you to keep your eyes open.”

"Can’t," Q mumbled.

"Yes you can, imagine I’m a computer screen," Alec told him as Q struggled to blink open his eyes. "Reading me now right?"

"Not as interesting," Q managed.

Bond laughed loudly, obviously, hoping Q was smiling somewhere at the other end. “James, ETA? Pulse getting thready,” Alec said quietly, Q’s eyes rolling a little.

"Two minutes. Hear that, Q? Only two minutes. You can stay awake for two more minutes, I know that," Bond teased.

"Not right now…" Q told him. "James, don’ think, can’t… love you."

"Don’t even think about it Q," Bond told him, motioning wilding in Q branch, trying to get them there quicker, get something to his partner.

"Q. No. Come on, fuck, you  _keep looking_  at me, you don’t give up now,” Alec told him firmly, almost angrily. “Quartermaster, open your eyes, open your  _bloody_  eyes.”

"Q?"

Alec’s breathing was too-harsh. “James, he’s passed out, still breathing,” he said quickly. “Med team here. Handing over.”

Bond sat back in his chair, head in his hands, waiting for information.

 ---

Q twitched a little, and opened his eyes. “Welcome back,” a voice told him, sounding absurdly relieved and covering it very badly indeed.

The lights were bloody bright, but Q could recognise Bond’s outline anywhere, any time. “Hey,” he mumbled. “M’not dead, then. Told you.”

“Not for want of trying,” Bond returned. “I nearly lost you, Q.”

Q nodded slightly, aware that several bits of him hurt rather badly, but not as badly as it could, which meant that he really  _had_  been given morphine. Lovely. “Did you kill Alec?” he asked blearily.

“He tried.”

Honestly, Q hadn’t even slightly noticed that Alec was sitting next to Bond. “Oh. Hi,” he said, quite happily. “Good. I like you. It would have been annoying if he’d killed you. So much paperwork.”

Alec snorted. “Definitely. As it is, James and I are doing all your paperwork for this mission. Thought it would be nice to give you a day off from it all.”

“Please don’t cock it up,” Q told them firmly.

Bond smiled slightly. “We’ll do our best. By the way – if you  _ever_  go on a field mission without me again, I swear, I’ll make gunshot wounds seem kind in comparison.”

“Aww,” Q whined. “I like working with Alec though, he’s actually alright, and the shooting was just a little thing…”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “You’re in hospital. I am not happy.”

“Don’t worry Q, we’ll sort it out,” Alec told him conspiratorially.

Bond cuffed him around the back of the head which – in double-oh terms – meant that he essentially punched Alec in the side of the head. Alec, to his credit, pretty much ducked out of the way in time. His hair was ruffled rather badly however. “Boys, stop fighting,” Q told them, eyes falling shut again, absolutely shattered.

“Sleep,” Bond murmured, his hand warm on Q’s forehead.

Q smiled slightly, and listened to Alec and Bond bicker above his head as he passed out.


	119. The Med Student Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q’s in the process of studying for his MCATS, or British equivalent, when an unconscious man drops onto his flat’s balcony. He treats him back to health through the night and doesn’t even want to think of asking questions. In the morning the man is gone but has left his card, James Bond. From there, the man drops by on ransom occasions, always injured and always flirtatious. 007 intends to keep his newly found personal physician a secret, someone he won’t have share MI6 with. Thanks! – runemarks

Q heard the body dropping, and blinked.

A soft sigh. Drunk students made their way to this part of the university campus on a semi-regular basis, but it didn’t prevent the entire situation being rather irritating.

He got up from his books when he didn’t hear said drunkard move; hopefully they hadn’t died, or passed out. It was usually very inconvenient, for reasons revolving around the Hippocratic oath, and his general compulsion to help people who were took inebriated to help themselves.

The sight of a middle-aged man with a fair degree of blood on his shirt was definitely surprising. Q watched him in suspended horror for a moment, before wrenching open his door, getting the man indoors with astonishing difficulty. He was at least twice Q’s size in sheer muscles, and uncooperatively unconscious.

Getting him to the bed was impossible, so Q laid him in the middle of his room. He winced slightly at the deep slice in his chest, a downwards motion, and Q really didn’t want to think too much about what caused it, so he feigned absolute ignorance, and stitched him up carefully. Q always had medical supplies, occupational hazard, and it was quite nice to actually use them for something other than a skinned knee.

He tactfully ignored the gun, the rather impressive-looking technical equipment, and just left it all well enough alone. Everything was placed to one side in a neat pile – Q gingerly handling the gun with absolute distaste – to allow him space to work on his impromptu patient.

Q fell asleep against the side of his bed, the man covered with his duvet, pillow under his head. Not the most comfortable of setups, but he is alive and well. Q dozed without really meaning to.

When he woke up, the man was gone. Impressively, he’d managed to make the bed and get Q into it, all without waking the young man.

On his bedside table, a card read James Bond. Thank you.

-

Q couldn’t help but grin, when Bond returned again. This time, he’d severely sprained his left wrist. Q rolled his eyes, tutted lightly, bandaged it, noticed that Bond’s eyes were a perfect, beautiful blue. He had checked responsiveness before, but hadn’t had the time to really look.

Bond was gorgeous. Smiled, laughed, teased, flirted. Q blushed a little, retorted with little half-jibes, noting the way Bond’s eyes lingered on him. He vanished as abruptly as he had appeared, leaving Q breathless.

-

Every few weeks, Bond appeared again. Each time, he had another little injury or another to add to his mounting collection. Q made little disparaging comments about how poorly Bond took care of himself, and Bond laughed a little, raised Q’s chin to meet his gaze.

Q kissed him instinctively.

Bond smiled, wound arms around Q’s body, pulled him in closer.

\---

Bond appeared the next time with a deep cut to his arm, a series of nasty bruises, and what looked like a strained handful of ribs. He was a nightmare, Q mused lightly, and smiled and blushed and remembered the feel of Bond’s body against his. He had seen the man naked – entirely for medical purposes – but their previous meeting had been something else entirely.

This time, he had been able to take the time to really explore. To see the beauty of Bond’s body, revel in it, enjoy it and exploit it and learn it for purposes other than stitching the man together.

Bond had done the same for him too, and good god, he was beautiful.

Bond also handed him a bottle of wine, and chocolates. “Dinner?”

Q grinned, nodded with unashamed eagerness.

-

The next morning, MI6 broke into his flat, and demanded that Q go with them. Q joined the dots in the space of seconds, and curses himself for a fool; he had managed to get tangled with somebody in the government, somebody  _high up_  in the government by the looks of things, and Q should have asked and thought about it a lot earlier and he hadn’t. Idiocy, pure idiocy, but there was little to be done; Q followed the men out like a chastised child, and was sat in a cell later that day with a scary-looking woman and informed that he had been seen, repeatedly, in the company of one James Bond.

“Given the deficit of records on you, and no known connection, we can only assume…”

Q swallowed. No, he had no records, he  _knew_  that had been a bad idea, but he had been using computers for years and decided a while back to remove traces of himself for te purposes of getting into university early.  “I’m not…”

The scary woman held up a hand. “You will be graduating from your university imminently,” she announced; Q raised an eyebrow, nodded slightly. “I would like to offer you a role within MI6. In any case, we will need to screen you thoroughly before you have any further contact with double-oh seven.”

“Sorry,” Q interrupted, blinking hugely. “ _Double-oh_? He’s a  _double-oh_  agent?! Oh, _fuck_. Excuse me, sorry, erm…”

“It is only a word,” M said, with a faint smile. “Now – we need you to either accept, or we will remove you from the immediate vicinity of a rather dangerous agent for MI6. Do I make myself clear?”

Q nodded slowly. “Crystal.”

M smiled properly; a terrifying sight. “I can almost see why he likes you,” she told him. “Until we meet again.”

There was a moment of confusion, then everything went black.


	120. The Dystopian Omegaverse Collection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a dystopian A/B/O future where the Holmes have taken over the UK under their despotic rule, their little brother Q has just recently come of age and so they begin looking for suitable Alphas. It’s not going well, until at a meet and greet James stumbles onto Q and they realize that they’re true-mates. – anon

Mycroft was twenty-three when he, and his sixteen-year-old brother Sherlock, took over the United Kingdom.

Q was eleven at the time; exceptionally intelligent, but without the latent malice or political streak his brothers possessed. Q was always happiest when alone, tucked away with his computers, working purely in cerebral circles.

It came as no surprise, but was certainly a point of irritation, when Q was found to be an Omega. Really, it brought down the tone of the whole family, having an impressionable Omega, potentially to be dominated by some overbearing idiot who would not have the Holmes’s best interests at heart.

Thus, Q was to be handed to one that his brothers deemed ‘suitable’. Presumably some ridiculous, malleable idiot that was easily bullied by Q’s elder brothers; he hated it, but could not begin to argue. Neither brother would allow it.

Mycroft ensured Q was all dressed up, suit and tie, taken to some function or other; he would be the star of the evening, the source of attraction for a host of hungry Alphas who would desperately want a young, unbonded Omega of Q’s calibre.

Bond was there as part of the security detail. He was not supposed to be showing any interest in Q whatsoever; honestly, he didn’t have much interest in bonding. Taking some apathetic child as a mate hardly seemed a good idea.

Q all but crashed into him, not even looking slightly at where he was going; Bond apologised immediately, helping the young man steady himself, glancing over him for any harm.

No harm, nothing of the sort.

Instead, there was a flash of something impossible, something immediate and desperate and cloying. “Hi,” Bond said gently, glancing over the young man, all angles and colour and light.

“Hey,” Q replied, cheeks turning very slightly pink. Bond grinned outright, delighted; he smelt  _perfect_ , entirely attuned to him, each part of his form mirrored and reflected and cherished.

Q could see Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, and that was that. Mycroft could analyse better, faster, than even Sherlock; any chance of keeping it secret was long-since gone.

A brief glance, a look back to Bond. “Get me out of here,” he said simply, with all the force at his disposal. The unrelenting power an Omega could have over his  _true-mate_.

Less than a heartbeat later, they were both in motion, while Mycroft set off every alarm in the building.

\---

Q kept his hand in Bond’s, and they  _ran_. Bond somehow magicked them a car, and Q hid in the footwell to avoid being caught by cameras as Bond flattened the accelerator. The car moved at speeds that made Q feel rather unwell, hand snaking out to brush against the material of Bond’s trousers, his skin, breathing him in as a desperate reassurance.

“Q Holmes,” Bond murmured eventually, when they were on an open motorway somewhere. Still travelling at speeds that offended human reason, but with reduced levels of stress and enough adrenaline to render all things equal. “ _Q Holmes_  is my true-mate.”

Still in the footwell, Q shrugged slightly. “I thought it was only a myth,” he murmured, head trying to slide closer to smell him, nearly crashing into the gear stick. “What’s… what’s your name, sorry?”

Bond laughed. “Bond. James Bond,” he replied, glancing down briefly; he seemed to become almost distracted, sighing out softly as he looked at Q. “You’re beautiful.”

Q smirked. “Why thank you. You’re rather… well. Out of my league, I believe it is fair to state. Where are we going, out of interest?”

A sharp swerve; Q let out a small startled sound, and Bond’s gaze snapped back to him with alarm, with all the protective instincts of an Alpha. “We need to get out of the country,” he said, with a low growl. “I doubt my cards are still working. I have friends who’ll shelter us in Europe for a while…”

“They’ll never stop looking,” Q murmured, fingers playing along the seam of Bond’s trousers, smiling absentmindedly. “I’m sorry.”

Bond swerved off abruptly onto a sliproad, and Q cursed slightly under his breath. “Don’t be,” Bond said swiftly, lip curling with annoyance at other drivers. “I couldn’t help it if I tried, and I don’t  _want_  to help it. You’re my Omega, and you’ll always be mine. I couldn’t leave you to a bonding with some  _wanker_  who…”

Sirens.

Q went slightly pale. “Mycroft,” he breathed, shrinking slightly where he crouched. “Oh, god no.  _Fuck_ , he mobilises fast. James, don’t let them… he’ll  _kill_  me, it’s bad enough I’m an Omega without… fucking, fucking  _hell…_ ”

Bond reached down to Q, hand carefully moving through his hair, strong and confident and safe. “Your brothers will not touch you,” he said, with a self-assurance that was probably laughable. “It’s alright, Q. Stay calm, your scent’s making it difficult to concentrate.”

The sirens blared louder, and Q curled up tighter; Bond was driving like a maniac, Q’s eyes squeezed shut and hand still on Bond’s leg, desperate, to be taken away from the regime his brothers had created and run, somewhere he could be with somebody he actually cared about, not a bloody pawn in their dual ambitions. “I trust you,” he told Bond softly, almost inaudibly.

“I’ll look after you,” Bond promised.

Q closed his eyes, and completely – entirely – believed him.

\---

The sirens kept getting louder, and Q held onto Bond like a lifeline as he concentrated, trying to shake them off and horribly aware that he wouldn’t be able to.

A roadblock; Bond swerved as best he could, and came to an abrupt stop. “Q, I’m here,” Bond promised, leaning down towards him; he found the catch, wrenching the seat back as far as it would go to give him some space, enough room to gently run hands over his omega’s hair, lean in to tuck legs around him, keeping as much physical closeness as possible.

Q was crying expressionlessly, head leant on Bond’s thigh, fingers clutching him with so much want it was physically painful to see. “I can’t lose you,” Q told him simply. “James. Fuck, I don’t even  _know you_ …”

Bond plucked the young man from the footwell and fully into the seat, wrapping arms around him like a cocoon, breathing him in. “There’s time for that,” he soothed, holding him tighter than he knew he could, his body bending and just  _being_ , and this young man, practically a child still, a pawn in his brothers’ games, deserved so much _better_. “I know you’re Q, and I know I can’t be without you. I’m James, and I worked for your brothers. I think it’s safe to say I don’t any more.”

Q let out a small snort. “I think they’re going to kill you,” he admitted, in a slightly broken tone. “I just… James, I don’t want to be forced into marriage, I don’t… I don’t want to lose you, I only just found you…”

Bond kissed him.

Everything stopped. It was all calm. Immediate, perfect calm.

“Out of the car, if you would.”

Mycroft. Q flinched slightly, head burying into Bond’s shoulder.

“Q, the consequences will be considerably worse if you defy us,” Sherlock continued, tone drawling and low.

Q lifted his head slightly. “Kill him, and I’ll make your lives hell,” Q promised, tone sharp and ringing. “I’ll find ways. Believe me. Information leaks, media hijacks, you name it. Let me have James,  _please_. I’ll remain quiet and out of sight as always, whatever the hell you like.”

Bond couldn’t help but feel awed; his omega, so brave, so determined. That same tone that sunk into Bond’s very marrow the moment Q told him to run, told him to embark on the most suicidal idea anybody could ever have.

His omega, curled into his chest with his heartbeat a million miles an hour, but voice so very strong.

Silence, for a moment. “Kill us both, if you’re going to,” Q snapped out. “But don’t hurt James.”

“Out of the car, Q, and we’ll discuss this further.”

Bond looked at him, for a moment. Q’s gaze was steady, fear flickering behind the eyes somewhere, sublimated but still present. “I think we have to,” he said softly, and kissed Bond quickly, a light brush.

He reached for the door handle.

\---

Q kept his hand in Bond’s, because he was damned if he would let go, not now. Never, actually. He would never let go.

Bond noted the way his Omega’s body remained in front of him, shielding him somewhat unapologetically. “You give me him,” Q reiterated, voice sharp and crisp and angled and lethal.

Mycroft stood opposite, calm as ever, a vague smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “You are determined to be difficult?” he asked simply, lightly. He somehow didn’t sound crisp or angry; he was so calm it was difficult to see what was under his skin, how far he would go, but Q knew him too well to take chances.

“Yes,” Q returned, simple, quiet. “Again – I’ve never been loud. Let me disappear.”

Sherlock’s disparaging snort was all that attracted Q’s attention; he was the archetypical second-in-command, present and dangerous and able to vanish in an instant. Mycroft had too much presence to ever manage a disappearing act. Sherlock could be alive and everywhere all at once, somehow. “You are useful to us,” Mycroft pointed out.

“I’m useful because I’ve not argued before,” Q returned easily, quickly, and Bond’s scent anchored and  _fuck_ , but he hated biology because predetermination was a bitch, and he couldn’t live without somebody he knew literally nothing about which was completely fucking stupid, in practice. “Be scared of me, Mycroft. I know too much, and I’ve seen too much, and I’m far too intelligent. Kill us both, or leave us alone.”

Mycroft’s body was utterly relaxed, expression managing to skirt into the realms of mild amusement. “It will be an awful pity,” he murmured, “for the public to find that the young darling of the nation has been killed in a tragic accident. And so  _soon_  after finding his truemate.”

Bond’s mouth moved into a snarl, body lacing with incredible tension in no time at all. “They’re baiting you,” Q murmured to him, soft and calm and terrified and knuckles white on Bond’s hand. “Mycroft. You do not want me as an enemy.”

Sherlock looked frankly bored, as per usual, and Mycroft’s stillness was becoming alarming. “It would be foolish to underestimate you,” Sherlock told everybody at large, an unpointed observation. “We will not kill him, naturally.”

“We have arranged a given partner for you Q, and you will do as we ask – in return, you may have occasional access, depending on your behaviour,” Mycroft returned, the terrifying oddness of both Holmes brothers so intrinsically linked, their minds working in such tandem. “Your husband will also naturally have a say, although I believe the situation will not be enough to deter his interests.”

Q felt sick, truly and honestly unwell. “You still want me to marry?” he asked, dangerous softness. “Mycroft, I won’t.”

“Then we will kill Mr Bond, and incarcerate you for the remainder of your natural life,” Mycroft returned without hesitation. “You wish to be respected, and I am giving you that. However, do not assume you possess skills or powers you do not – I am informing you of options. If you wish to become a martyr, that is entirely your prerogative. It will not alter matters overmuch.”

“At this stage, I expect he’d take you if you were already bonded,” Sherlock commented, with his usual almost-accidental vitriol. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft just watched Q.

Q let out a short breath, making a decision, the only decision he could. “Okay,” he murmured, and felt Bond behind him, all but stopping breathing.

\---

In seconds, Bond was wrenched forcibly away. “I’m not a fucking idiot, Mycroft, and I’ve only just found my truemate and it’s been a very unpleasant evening – allow me time to adapt? I’d like to establish more than his name, for example. While the pair of you may restrain or just have not been hit with this yet, you can smell it. You know.”

“Go on,” Mycroft conceded, waving his men into letting Bond go.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Bond darted for Q, their hands moving in together, their closeness evident. “Really?”  
“I’m not without mercy,” Mycroft told him, not sounding precisely like he meant it; Q and Bond watched him with open suspicion, Q’s thumb drawing placatory circles into the top of Bond’s hand. “Come on now. We need to adjourn.”

Q held on, letting them be guided into a car. “Be ready to get down,” Bond half-breathed, almost missed.

Naturally, Q didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge other than the slightest squeeze of his hand that could have been passed off as almost anything.

Mycroft and Sherlock would travel in their own cars. Bond and Q remained in a locked-down, bulletproof car with a driver, and two accompanying guards.

Bond was breathing slowly, carefully. Q watched, keeping everything in sight, his brothers’ car travelling into the distance and taking him away, towards a partner he had never met and a life he simply didn’t want to lead.

If it weren’t for Bond, and the simple  _suggestion_  of Bond, he would probably have started considering suicide near enough on the spot. As it was, imagining living a life without Bond made him very aware of Bond not being able to live a life without  _him_ , and that was the thought that kept him tethered.

Without Bond, Q would destroy the world, and himself, in that order and with great style.

Honestly, Q had no idea how he did it. The car had been moving, everybody had been quiet, and – out of nowhere – a gunshot.

The driver’s head exploded, the bullet flying out of the open window. Bond took the wheel in a terrifyingly smooth motion, Q ducked practically under the seat, another two gunshots, and the car was driving perfectly steadily with three dead men in it.

Q took it shockingly well. “Can I get up yet?” he asked, almost conversationally.

“Go for it,” Bond returned. “Stay low, in the front seat. This could be interesting.”

Q did as told, immensely grateful for the blacked-out windows, and waited to see what Bond would do next.


	121. The Regency Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regency AU? For argument’s sake same-sex couples are uncommon but not unheard of. Q works as a professor at university and makes a modest living but his mother has convinced him to join in one more season before giving it up. At one of the parties he catches the eye of decorated naval officer, James Bond, who’s been ordered by his own mother to find someone tolerable and intelligent, or else. Q’s quite baffled why Lord Commander Bond would come to call. – runemarks

They were always such bores, the kinds of people that would approach him; pretty girls, with coquettish laughter, or pompous men looking for a clever young thing to show off at dinner parties. Q had become entirely sickened by the whole affair. If it were up to him, he would simply retire to his rooms, knee deep in books, tea and his cat. But apparently his mother had a different plan for him. One that involved marrying someone awfully rich who could take care of her little boy, maybe even create a few grandchildren.

Q could not imagine anything worse.

He endured the unpleasantries. The circular parties where he would rotate like a damn pig on a spit with infinite vacuous men and women, feeling honestly sick, bored, very tired and very much like he would like to go home and mark some of his pending essays, perhaps look at writing a piece of his own, discuss mathematics and politics with some of his fellows and get a very long way away from the stifling, choking formalities.

“Good god this is hideous,” murmured a voice in his ear. Q almost jumped out of his skin; not only had some bugger read his mind, he had even had the audacity to voice it.

“Erm, yes, quite,” he managed, trying to cough to conceal his initial panic. Turning around, he was shocked, once again, by the man who had spoken.

Q blinked.

The other man’s smile grew at Q’s expression. “You’re not very subtle,” he noted, with transparent amusement. “First season?”

“Last,” Q corrected, feeling both a little petulant, and a little confused. “You’re… Lord Commander Bond, aren’t you?”

Bond winked. “James, please. No need to stand on ceremony when we both know you abhor it.”

Finally, Q managed a slight smile of his own. Bond seemed quietly delighted by its presence, reaching out a gloved hand to Q’s face. Q’s eyes narrowed, very slightly. “I… do you, want to, I mean…”

“Dance? Love to,” Bond replied, skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling a little as Q nodded.

“You should know, I mean, I am an abysmal dancer.” Q told him, with a touch of anxiety. “Not well at least, I am truly awful at leading…”

“Good thing I am the one leading then, is it not?” Bond countered, leading Q into the swirling masses.

“Well, I am even worse at following!”

It was mostly true; Q attempted to stay vaguely upright initially, before Bond took the option out of his hands. Q found himself near enough  _floating_ , Bond somehow managing to keep him partially airborne, allowing him enough autonomy to occasionally find balance on top of Bond’s feet, as a small child might. “You are abysmal,” Bond purred in Q’s ear, while Q flushed an intriguing shade of scarlet.

“I…”

“I would like to see you again,” Bond told him, still low, their conspiratorial little secret. “Away from all this. Formalities, ridiculous things like that. Sound good?”

Q glanced up, meeting Bond’s bright blue eyes, and nodded. “Excellent,” he agreed, and allowed Bond to make him dance.

\---

What is her name?” Bond asked, nodding at the battle axe of a woman on the bench a few meters away.

"No idea, I have always called her Auntie M," Q told him, a slight blush. Their chaperone raised an eyebrow, striking eyes glaring at Bond for all she was worth. "She’s a friend of my mother’s."

"Terrifying woman," Bond commented, as tea was brought over.

Q shrugged slightly, looking over Auntie M with a slightly appraising glance. “I suppose she is,” he conceded, with a faint shrug. “I’m just used to her. She’s mostly benign, only wants the best. She likes you, actually.”

Bond blinked, looking to Q with naked shock. “She what?”

"She thinks you will be very good for me," Q replied with a slight shrug. "Exciting, strong, a good provider," lips twitching a bit. "And I believe her main point was that ‘he would be a bit of entertainment in this otherwise dreary existence."

Bond raised an eyebrow with obvious shock, and less obvious scepticism. “Well then,” he managed. “I mustn’t disappoint. Would you like to take a turn around the garden with me?”

Q smiled sideways, aware what that was the prelude to.

"I believe that would be pleasant, yes," Q agreed, Bond smirking a little. They rose, Bond offering his arm to his young gentleman.

"Just avoid the roses," Auntie M called, causing Q to blush al the way up to his ears.

Q rose, grasping Bond’s arm with a slight degree of tension. His breath quickened, as they moved through the garden. It was a beautiful day, the skies clear and birds singing. Q felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, anticipation and burning, desperate want.

Bond stopped a little while away, out of the view of everybody in the house. He turned, glancing over Q, expression torn a little with worry. “Q,” he began, mouth utterly dry. “I… it has been a while of our courting, in our quiet way, and I was rather hoping you would wish… Q, I would like to offer you my hand in marriage.”

Q grinned like an absolute idiot. “Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “I…” he paused a moment, swallowing slightly, trying to retain some sense of decorum. “I would be delighted to accept your proposal.”

Bond smiled lightly, and pressed a soft kiss to Q’s lips.

Q returned it with hilarious, ferocious passion, and all but knocked them both into the rose bushes.


	122. The Star Trek Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey jen, I don’t know if all my requests got through to you. I wanted to asked for a Skyfall/Star Trek fusion with Bond as a captain and Q as his first officer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re entering Klingon airspace. I need everybody on alert, shields up. Do we have data readings, Q?”

“Negative, Captain,” replied a light, calm voice. “Thus far nothing to read. If the situation changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

Q was a tricky little creature, and knew it, and revelled in it. Rumour went that he was not wholly human; a touch of Vulcan somewhere in his genetics, perhaps even that of Spock, the legendary first mate of the original Starship Enterprise.

Bond was the Captain of a new fleet of Starships, called the double-oh range; his ship was double-oh seven, and frankly, he adored it. The mission was a deep-space assignment, intended to span several years, exploring, cultivating and protecting various civilisations. The actual mission brief had been a grandiose piece of rubbish with far too many split infinitives for Bond’s liking.

However, he had managed to successfully acquire his favourite science officer and second-in-command. Q had been working quietly through Starfleet training, developing quite a reputation; Bond had the pleasure of meeting and working with him once, on a smaller Starship when both had been lower ranking.

In fact, they may or may not have both wound up in Bond’s quarters that evening.

Neither referenced or discussed the matter. Q agreed to the First Officer and Science/Research Chief role without any coercion, unsurprisingly, and Bond became his direct superior.

Once in a while, when it was quiet. When the night skeleton staff were in place, and the redshirts had survived, and there were a million stars; then, Bond and Q had one another. Their working relationship was quietly professional, even cold.

Quite frankly, their sexual relationship was rather similar.

Except, once in a while.

Except, when Q insisted he go on planet landings for ‘scientific’ reasons, when there was almost nothing there of interest.

Except, when Bond did the precise same thing.

“Klingons on the starboard bow,” Q said quickly, expression becoming closed-in and very sharp indeed.

Bond’s expression similarly tightened. “Moneypenny, hail them. Let them know we mean no harm to them or their airspace; we are passing through.”

Miss Moneypenny nodded; she was an excellent communicator and translator, another that Bond had hand-picked. She spoke fluently in a number of languages and dialects, and could more than hold her own if anything went wrong. “They’re not happy,” she said quickly, muting her microphone.

“Cite treaty F1B,” Q said lightly, from behind them; Bond and Moneypenny twisted to him, and he just coaxed again. “F1B,” he reiterated.

Moneypenny relayed; the Klingons removed their arms, and everybody breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Bond caught Q’s eye for the shortest of moments, and was graced with the gentlest of smiles.

“Okay, moving to warp,” Bond said abruptly, breaking the contact. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

\---

Q tapped on the door of Bond’s quarters, breathing out slowly, carefully controlled.

The door slid open, and Q took a handful of steps in; the door slid shut again, Bond looking up at him with a politely amused expression. “How can I help you?” he asked, with a sideways smirk, reaching for the wine he and Q usually drank when they shared an evening in his quarters. They would talk until the early hours, before Q retired to his own quarters for the handful of hours sleep he required as a part-Vulcan, and Bond pretended he could survive on three hours sleep.

He clocked Q’s expression, and his smile died. “What’s happened?” he asked immediately.

“I have to inform you of a somewhat regrettable circumstance,” Q said quietly, still breathing too-carefully. “Bond. James. Contrary to all my expectations, and prior experience, I have reason to believe I am about to enter pon farr.”

Bond blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Pon farr. The Vulcan mating ritual. Wherein I need to either mate with one who is compatible, or enter into a ritualised fight. My other option is to die, in a relatively painful manner,” Q explained, surprisingly lightly for somebody discussing the potential of their death.

Well. That was unexpected. “We’re a long way from Vulcan,” Bond pointed out.

“Yes, I noticed,” Q returned drily. “Thus, I would assume mating is my only option. Which is concerning, to say the least. I do know of one on this ship who would be psychically compatible, but to say this is a less than ideal circumstance would be grimly understating matters. Not to mention that I’m not even certain it would work with a non-Vulcan, but I’m prepared to take the risk if the other party would be even faintly inclined to do so.”

Bond blinked again. “Who, dare I ask, would be your compatible mate?”

Q looked, for a disconcerting moment, extremely unhappy. “Well,” he started, heaving another breath, darting his gaze up to Bond. “That would be you, Captain.”

\---

Bond had informed the crew that himself and his first mate would be on a separate mission, and unreachable, for a handful of days. Mallory had taken the bridge, Eve was now first officer, and the crew had generally adapted around the absence for the few days that the pair knew Q would need.

“I apologise for this,” Q told him quietly. “It is not quite what I would deem an ideal circumstance.”

Bond’s mouth twitched towards a smile. “I’m sure we’ll work through it,” he said, with an edge of something in his tone that Q wondered at, unsure of how to respond. “So. Shall we?”

The meld would set everything in motion. Q would essentially lose his last facets of control, and the plak tow would begin.

Q lifted spiked fingers, and placed them to the correct locations on Bond’s face.

Images spiked, emotional links instated, the uncertain world of human emotions against the dispassion of Vulcan inabilities, and the human aspects of Q augmenting and expanding into something extreme, the naked form of a creature who disallowed himself the very basic instinct of  _feeling_.

A heartbeat later, and Q was kissing Bond with a truly extraordinary degree of passion. Bond was nearly knocked off his feet, trying to keep upright, half-laughing as Q’s glasses tilted and Bond ripped them off, casting them to one side while Q  _whimpered_ into his mouth with desperate want, and Bond really couldn’t – and didn’t want to, had  _never_  wanted to – object.

Q disliked conceding emotion. He disliked the human parts of himself, and would never truly engage in a ‘relationship’ in the way Bond wished him to.

“Untrue,” Q told him, and pushed him back against the bed; Bond fell backwards, Q’s body following, slim and elegant and terrifyingly powerful, grip iron and aim impeccable, and Bond discovered that if he pushed, if he  _looked_ , he could see Q.

Everything.

Q had never spoken. Bond heard echoing statements through their minds, through their shared thoughts. Bond kissed Q and tore away their Starfleet uniforms, while listening to the untempered truth of Q’s  _want_. A want that had always been; he had recognised a compatible mate from the moment he boarded the ship, and then – to his tremendous annoyance – found shortly afterwards that he was falling in love.

Bond had fallen for him forever ago.

The questions didn’t need to be voiced. Bond felt along the contours of Q’s groin, cradling his cock, squeezing in a way that made Q all but  _keen_ , and smiled at the spark of pleasure that pulsed through both of their minds, and the desperation was building a climax, heat and slide and press and pressure, and Bond felt their bodies and mind fuse, Q crying out as his body shook through convulsions, and they rode through Q’s blood fever with fingers laced.


	123. The Hacker Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your writing is beautiful and I am jealous! Could you maybe do one where Q doesn’t work for MI6, and he hacks into their system because he can/for fun whatnot - and so Bond (and maybe another agent like Alec/006?) are sent to kill him and they are expecting some horrible big evil terrorist. I don’t know… I know you must get like a million prompts (at least in my mind you do, cause you’re so amazing). – anon

Alec rolled his shoulders slightly, nodding towards the door; Bond moved first, Alec covering, an organic unit as they moved through the block of flats towards 2C.

Somewhere in said flat, they were expecting to locate one of the best hackers in recent history – one who had hacked MI6 right down to their core files, and left a few playful messages indicating that, perhaps, they might consider upping their security.

M had, tight-lipped and furious, deployed two of her best agents. Q-branch were competent enough to track the signal – their devious little hacker was evidently fallible – and prepared. Little jokes, playfulness, were rarely a good sign. It indicated a lack of hold on reality, a type of psychosis that was lethal in terrorists or criminals.

Not to mention that, unless they intended harm, nobody would really care enough to spend  _n_  number of hours hacking MI6.

Bond took a breath, and lifted his foot to slam against the lock; the door splintered open under the onslaught, Bond entering first with Alec a half-step behind, targeting both ends of the miniscule flat.

Sat on a comfy-looking desk chair in front of a serious-looking computer, limbs all folded up together, a  _terrified_ -looking young man stared at them. “Oh fuck,” the kid said quietly.

Alec was closer; he moved towards the boy, who took one look, and scrambled out of his chair to belt for the nearest exit. Alec snagged him without even trying, placing the gun to his temple and priming it. The young man looked up at Bond through enormous green eyes, dark hair falling in his face, and froze completely.

“Name and age,” Bond asked sharply.

The kid said nothing. Alec pistol-whipped him; he let out a snatched cry, toppling to one side with blood abruptly tricking over white skin and glasses falling off his face. A hand in his hair, and the boy was hoisted upright again, now squinting a little.

“Once again: name, and age.”

“Q. I’m Q,” the young man managed, shaking slightly at the feel of Alec’s gun against the nape of his neck. “Twenty-four.”

Bond raised an eyebrow; he looked barely out of his teens, especially without his glasses. “You know who we are?”

“MI6,” he said quickly, staring up at Bond, beginning to babble out of honest panic. “I… I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I saw your gaps, and highlighted them, that’s all; I’m British, and I don’t want to be blown up or see England go to hell because of dodgy firewalls so I left notes, I thought it would be  _helpful_ …”

Alec pressed the gun in harder to shut him up, and ‘Q’ obediently fell silent.

It was patently obvious that he would not hurt a fly. Either that, or he was a consummate actor.

Bond sighed. “Let’s take him in,” he suggested to Alec; Alec nodded, expression hard as he yanked the boy to his feet, and guided him out the door.

\---

Bond let out a long sigh, looking through the one-way glass at Q’s huddled form; he had curled in the corner, looking exhausted and terrified out of his mind, glancing towards the door and mirror in turn.

Alec walked in, shoulders rolling slightly, knuckles slightly bloodied. “It doesn’t look good,” he said frankly. “He won’t even give us his bloody name, and he has no records whatsoever. I highly doubt there’s a dangerous bone in his body…”

“He doesn’t exactly fit the profile,” Bond agreed, unable to stop watching him. Q wiped his nose with the back of his hand, apparently coming to terms with the fact it wouldn’t quite stop bleeding. “Still no name?”

“Nothing more than ‘Q’,” Alec confirmed, shaking his head. “Christ. Whoever he is, he needs to start talking quickly, or M’s going to have his head on a spike.”

Bond and Alec exchanged looks briefly, the weight of far too many years knowing one another, understanding one another. “Go,” Alec nodded. “I’ll keep M occupied for a while. Looking at the flat, I’d say tea is a good opener. You have one hour.”

-

Q glanced up with unashamed terror as the door opened again; a fair enough response, wariness replacing fear as he scanned over Bond. “Is Alec coming back?” he asked quietly, trying to peer behind him, noticing the tea with interest.

“How do you know his name?” Bond asked, placing the tea on the table. “That’s for you, by the way. Milk and two sugars. Whether that’s how you drink it or not, I’d say you need the sugar.”

Slowly, Q uncurled himself from the corner. Alec had given him a few very good hits; a charming bruise was rising on his cheekbone, hands staying over his stomach where Bond assumed Alec had punched him a couple of times. “You said his name on the journey here,” Q admitted, sliding into a chair; there was a table in the room, with two chairs, where the interrogation would have started. “I… thanks for the tea. I’m guessing you’re the good cop?”

Bond smiled without joy. “The only reason Alec was interrogating you is that I have more specific torture training,” he said, very honestly. Bond was usually brought in for the extremely persistent types; Alec was excellent, but had a general dislike of the more extreme escalations. “Why won’t you tell us your name?”

Q’s expression crumpled a very little. “I can’t,” he said, with a note of pure honesty. Bond raised an eyebrow. “I… I was taught my computer skills by somebody who would be… keen on getting me back, to say the least. I had to disappear. I don’t have a name any more, I don’t have anything. I can’t tell you, because the moment I come on record, he will come for me.”

“MI6 do have secure systems…”

To Bond’s amusement, Q just raised an eyebrow.

“Touche,” Bond grinned. “Drink your tea. And tell me who’s looking for you. I don’t care about your name, or your history – I care about anybody else who, like you, can enter our systems.”

Q shifted, still transparently wary; he winced slightly as he moved, in evident pain. He weighed up his options visibly, as Bond shot a very surreptitious glance towards the glass where Alec was doubtless waiting. “Okay,” he said quietly, taking a sip of tea and – finally – starting to talk.

\---

Q had refused to say a word about the identity of his teacher. He had happily talked Bond through how he had hacked the systems, why, everything they needed concerning the technical aspects of hacking.

Bond had left after his allotted hour with the given information. “We need the name of his teacher,” M told them coldly; Alec let out a low sigh, and Bond’s jaw tightened a little. He was growing rather fond of Q, actually, and was very reluctant to see him hurt any further than necessary when he was evidently scared.

Whoever his teacher was, they were frightening. Q’s jaw tightened each time he was referenced, gaze becoming visibly shiftier, tighter. “I got away once, I don’t want to have to do so again,” he murmured. “If I tell you my name, you’ll try and research me – the moment they get wind of  _anybody_  looking me up, it’s over, and I’m not doing that again.”

M was content. Bond was the human contact – he was the ‘good cop’ for the first time in his life – and Alec was the lower escalation of violence. Thus, M had sent in a heavy-duty team of five anonymous-looking agents who were intended to frighten and physically injure.

The physical injury was completely unnecessary, really; Q was more than sufficiently terrified by the agents, who were twice his height and width without really trying, and could literally throw him around the room without even faintly trying. “ _Pleasepleaseplease_ ,” he tried, again and again, reduced to a complete mess in a handful of minutes.

“Your  _name_.”

“Q, it’s only Q,  _please_.”

“Who taught you to hack?”

Q was punched, hard, in the solar plexus; he collapsed, retching, trying to snatch in breath and hitching violently as he was picked up and slammed against the one-way glass.

Bond, on the other side, watched the press of his worryingly thin form. Alec, next to him, looked just as uneasy as he felt. “He has to give us something, or M’s going to move onto the torture team,” Alec murmured, not saying anything that hadn’t already occurred to Bond. “You’ll be in in a moment.”

The five filed out, leaving Q to retch and sob in the corner of the room.

Bond walked in, leant nonchalantly against the closed door. “Told you, you’re a  _good cop_ ,” he rasped, upon seeing the double-oh. “I can’t tell you, they’ll kill me, I…”

“They?” Bond asked, with immediate interest. There was more than one. “Tell me, Q, and I can get this to stop. We’ll keep you safe, even if it means keeping you in this damn holding cell for the next few months.”

Q snorted slightly, breath hitching; he glanced up to Bond, and his expression left no doubt that he would not last much longer under MI6 interrogation techniques. True, he was doing remarkably well, but he would still fall apart soon enough. “Raoul Silva,” Q murmured, with broken sadness. “He taught me hacking. But… s’Jim you need to watch, he’s… fuck, he’ll kill me, please…”

“Jim?” Bond asked again, voice flintily hard. “Q, if you don’t give us information, we’ll kill you long before he does. My boss wants to get our torture team involved; those gentlemen were only here because you’re very fragile-looking and we didn’t want to go too far too fast.”

Q pulled himself up a bit, falling painfully against the wall, glancing up at Bond. “James Moriarty,” he murmured, and coughed, face crunching with pain. “You keep me safe. You  _keep me away_  from him.”

Bond nodded curtly. “You have my word,” he stated, and left without a further word.

\---

Q remained in the cell, naturally; there was nowhere else to keep him, and given the chance that he was lying, nobody wanted to place him anywhere he could break out of. In any case, the moment it was suggested that he be moved into an MI6 safe house, he essentially backed away into a corner and refused to be plied out again; at least in MI6 HQ, he stood a  _better_  chance of not being tracked down. “You cannot and will not make me,” Q stated, with considerably more bravery than he felt. “He’ll kill me. I don’t want to die like that. Please.”

Bond and Alec had joined together in an impromptu Q-protection gang. They remained outside his cell on rotation, armed to the teeth, drinking tea and feeding their charge meals. Tech branch had also expressed an interest, meaning Q had been allowed loose with a laptop to do his worst.

His worst was truly, terrifyingly good. Tech branch had left as gibbering wrecks, devastated at the mess Q had made to even their best work.

Alec laughed in a low, rumbling tone. Bond just shook his head slightly, smirking at Q as he reached nonchalantly for his tea, glancing over the mug at Bond almost shyly. “You’re a clever little shit, aren’t you?”

“I try,” Q returned mildly, and Alec snorted again.

The lights went out.

Q immediately panicked; Bond could half-see, as his eyes adapted, the young hacker scrambling into the far corner and curling arms over his head, frantic and absolutely, transparently terrified.

Bond and Alec listened, in absolute silence, to the sound of somebody singing. “He’s here,” Q murmured, voice oddly calm, despite his obvious physical betrayals. “Oh gods. Seb’ll be here too, then.  _Fuck_.”

“Seb?”

“Sebastian Moran,” Q said quietly, almost contemplatively. “He’s…”

Alec cursed in fluent Russian. “One of ours,” he hissed, guns already out. “I’ll scout the corridor. James, you stay with Q, I’ll lock the cell down for you both.”

“Bad plan, ladies and gents,” a voice sang lazily, syllables stretched out languidly. “Oh dear, Q, you’ve been bad. Raoul’s very upset with you for running off like that. After everything we’ve done for you.”

Q swallowed slightly, glancing up at Bond, jaw set. “I told you they’d come,” he breathed, as though his voice could be swallowed, compressed into a corner like his body was. “I have to go now, or it’ll be a long way too late – just, come and find me. Please. You know I can hack, they started wanting me to hack you and I don’t want to, but they can and they will.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Irish, distinctly so. Mocking and almost sweet somehow, with an underlying razor wire edge that Bond noted with instinctive wariness.

Q shifted upwards, Bond shadowing behind the door. “Bye,” Q murmured, and hacked his way out of the cell on the internal keypad, in a show of technological deftness that was actually slightly worrying. He slipped out into the corridor, called  _Jim_  once.

A single gasp, and silence. It was very neat, very tidy, very efficient.

It only occurred to Bond later that Q could have escaped the cell any time he wanted to.

\---

The bag was wrenched off Q’s head, bright light shining into his eyes. “Hola, querido,” a voice purred; Q’s body rolled in understandable fear, before he was faced with the blurred contours of Raoul Silva.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Moriarty grinned; he placed Q’s glasses on his nose with pouting gentleness, and leant back, glancing the young man over with a self-satisfied smirk. “Mia _ow_.”

Q tensed as Silva moved closer; his cheek was gently cupped by Silva’s manicured hand, breathing through a ribcage that felt like it had compressed inwards, no oxygen left. “I’m sorry,” Q breathed, glancing quickly between them. “I…”

A sharp slap; Q’s head whipped to one side, and he stayed in place for a moment, just breathing, waiting, glasses askew. “We don’t like runaways,” Moriarty told him softly, stalking around behind him while Silva waited in front, a small smile on his lips. “What were you doing?”

Q didn’t answer. There was no good answer. He had been hiding, patching up MI6 firewalls, keeping a careful eye on Silva and Moriarty as their criminal rings expanded and contracted, throwing out viruses and seeing what exploded. For the last six months, he had been hiding, trying to damage everything the pair were working on.

They knew he had. They were just waiting for him to confess.

Q closed his eyes.

-

MI6 received a series of photographs a week later, planted directly in the heart of their databases: Q was alive, but judging by the images, probably didn’t want to be.

With the photos, a small, almost invisible quirk of coding. Tech branch explored it, delving deeper until they found it: characters, strung together, making a horrible type of sense  _please find me_ , James and Alec looking at it with something that almost approached guilt. Almost. “Can we track the signal?”

Tech branch, to everybody’s tremendous surprise, found that they  _could_.

“He’s left us clues,” their Quartermaster informed the two agents, and M. “There is a good chance that he could be found out; we need to tread carefully. Either way, this boy is too good a hacker to not be on our side. Either we retrieve, or eliminate.”

“Understood,” M said instantly. “Both of you on board?”

The pair exchanged looks. They were both, quite distinctly, not intending to let Q die. They were far too invested in the entire situation. “Yes,” they lied in unison, and prepared to leave.

\---

Bond and Alec exchanged glances.

Alec put two bullets through the lock, and Bond slammed a foot into the door; it blasted open, revealing an amusedly alarmed Moriarty and Silva half-cackling as MI6 came in. “Oh,  _clever_  boy,” he crowed at Q, glancing over the young man with transparent excitement at the sheer  _brilliance_  of it.

Q looked like absolute hell. Lip split, breathing obviously laboured and rattling curiously, visibly exhausted, very thin and very pale. His ankle was swollen and cuffed to the desk, installed in front of a computer; there were screens everywhere, Silva himself in front of another keyboard and both typing with casual ease. “Clever, clever boy,” Silva breathed again.

A sharp glance to Bond, and Q’s face fell slightly, paled.

Somehow, it didn’t seem surprising that Silva and Moriarty had prepared for the eventuality of MI6 coming for them.

Silva rattled off a few keystrokes; a countdown appeared on screen, neon numbers in the mouth of a laughing skull, down from sixty, seconds ticking backwards. Alec swore fluidly in Russian, and Q just let out a small gasp; he and Bond looked down, in unison, to the cuff keeping him attached to the desk.

Moriarty and Silva moved in tandem.

Alec darted for Silva, Bond for Moriarty; the former was a damn good ex-agent, who was more than capable of putting up a good fight. Alec was, however, younger and very agile – he and Silva sparred for a few seconds, Alec slamming out an elbow and catching accidently catching Moriarty; the latter was thrown to one side and out of Bond’s grasp, using the few seconds he had to scramble to his feet and out the door.

Bond knew enough of Moriarty and Silva to have a strong suspicion that Sebastian Moran was waiting to get Moriarty out; honestly, there were more pressing concerns than pursuit.

Namely, that Q was cuffed to a desk with a computer that was at twenty seconds, and Bond had no idea what that actually meant in practise, but was relatively sure he could guess.

“James, go,” Q said softly, quickly, as Alec hoisted Silva out of the door. His voice was worryingly raspy, eyes dark with utter exhaustion. “You have to go. I can’t walk anyway, even if you got it off.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, and ducked down to Q’s ankle; he looked over the cuff, acutely aware of the ticking timer, the animated skull laughing and laughing, and Q tried to bat him away and make him just  _leave_ , which really was not helping him examine the lock on the damn cuff.

Five seconds.

Bond fiddled, and it clicked open. “Shit,” Q said in disbelief.

Four.

Bond wrenched the handcuffs away, freeing Q’s ankle, Q letting out a sharp cry as the movement jolted the joint.

Three.

Q tried to get to standing, adrenaline the only thing keeping him in motion, stumbling instantly and collapsing forward onto Bond with a fractured apology.

Two.

Bond hoisted him forward and up, practically into his arms, as the laughter continued on the screens and turned an ominous, immediate red.

One.

Bond all but threw Q to the floor, following a heartbeat later, shielding the younger man with his own body as the computer exploded.

\---

 

Bond opened his eyes blearily, everything aching to quite a spectacular degree, aware that his back felt like it had been set on fire.

Sitting up was a monumental effort, but manageable, just about. He indulged himself in a rather melodramatic moan.

“If you’re expecting sympathy, you will not be getting any,” a voice commented drily from above him; Bond focused, seeing the indomitable figure of M standing over him. “That was immensely reckless, moronic, and lost us James Moriarty – and very nearly you too, but given your little habit of not quite dying, I suppose it is unsurprising that you have obstreperously survived.”  
Bond took a moment to actually remember what in the hell had happened.

Q.

“Is he…?”

M rolled her eyes. “You are startlingly predictable,” she chastised, giving Bond pause as he digested her meaning. “He is quite alright. Physically mostly well. You bore the brunt of the explosion, but given his existing physically compromised state, he was not overly well by the time we reached you. He is very much alive, and very damn talkative – he’s been terrorising tech branch ever since reaching consciousness.”

Bond grinned; that sounded curiously plausible, as it happened. When not being terrorised, he could imagine that Q was quite a sarcastic little shit. He had shown that amply when being interrogated, while talking to Bond quietly. “Alec?”

“Rather annoyed with you, but otherwise intact,” she said simply. “Silva is in our custody. I have my own past, in regards to him; we will need to beware of him. In the meantime, I suppose you would like to see Q?”

Bond sat up fully, and grinned. “Is he here?”

M raised an eyebrow. “Keeping him away was near enough impossible,” she commented, almost wearily, and stalked out.

Q arrived an instant later, grinning, surprisingly mobile for somebody on crutches. “You’re alive,” he said happily. “Excellent.”

“So are you,” Bond smiled back, looking Q up and down; he looked a lot better, less pale, although the swelling over his lip had yet to go entirely, and he still looked very tired. “M likes you, then?”

Q’s eyebrows furrowed. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been employed, rather than shot,” Bond returned, making Q blanch for a brief second before relaxing back. “Her bark is just as bad as her bite, so stay on guard, and you two will get along famously.”

It was curious; Q’s smile was utterly contagious, almost relaxing in the ease, the loveliness of it. “Dinner?” the young man asked quietly, tentatively. “You won’t stop looking at me, so I’m hoping I’m not misreading…”

“Dinner,” Bond confirmed, with a sideways smirk. “Certainly.”


	124. The Red Thread Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe messes up something so the red thread connecting Bond and Q becomes visible and it’s only allows them a few feet of space. Some awkwardish pre-slash,please. Thanks :) – anon

“What, in the name of  _god_ , is that?” Q asked, with a low growl.

Bond stared helplessly, an unusual expression for the agent. “I have no idea,” he conceded, poking at the thread, mouth slightly agape. “I… red thread. Isn’t that the old rumour about destined…”

He trailed off, looking at Q with absolute, blanket alarm. Q looked just as frightened. “… lovers,” Q supplied, eyes wide, backing away from Bond slightly and cursing as the string drew taught. It wasn’t  _connected_  to them, per se, but it was very much present and refused to allow either party to move too far away before their bodies simply froze.

“No offence, but…”

“None taken,” Q interjected quickly, shaking his head – he was not going to be James Bond’s lover. There was  _not_  a universal link between them. The universe had cocked up in allowing them to even  _see_  a red thread, there was the very real possibility that it had cocked up  _who_  it was connecting too.

Bond kept trying to back away, found himself unable to. Neither could Q. “We’re stuck in one another’s immediate vicinity,” Q managed after a moment, trying to tug on the thread, trying to make it  _go away_. “Oh  _god_. This is a nightmare.”

“Cheers,” Bond commented drily, met with a blackly acerbic look from Q. “So. What do we do?”

Q threw his arms in mute hopelessness. “I don’t know,” he moaned. “Wait for it to go? I have  _work_. We’re going to need to get chairs for you. And  _fuck_ , what if it doesn’t go by this evening? You can’t stay in my flat.”

“Why not?”

Q shot him another look. “Grossly inappropriate, for one,” he commented drily. “Oh, this is going to be bloody impractical. Either way. For now, you need to sit down, and let me work, or I’ll kill you to get rid of the damn thing.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Inspiring homicide; I’m almost flattered at my ability,” he shot, and Q just let out a dark snarl. “Calm down, Q.”

“Shut up,” Q groused, and sat down at his desk, typing without even casting a glance at his  _apparent_  one-day lover.

\---

After two weeks, Q and Bond were at their wits’ end. “Is there  _no way_  of severing this bloody thing?” Q pleaded; Bond was getting visibly frustrated with not being able to go on active missions, not when attached to Q’s side, and Q was getting very annoyed with not being able to take a piss without Bond needing to avert his gaze which was spectacularly awkward, actually.

They had found a sleeping arrangement that worked, mercifully. Bond could sleep almost anyway, and Q had spare blankets; trying to coordinate themselves around the few feet of space was a living hell, but they finally wound up with something passable.

Bond woke every morning at five, on the dot, and started working out on Q’s floor. Which was fine, except that if he strayed outside their curiously-imposed parameters, Q was tugged to the side of the bed, and he woke up  _exceptionally_  irritated.

Altogether, they were going crazy.

“You do realise that if you actually just did as the universe wanted, you might stand a chance of getting unattached?” Eve suggested, with a vague smirk; she earned a growl of irritation from Bond, and a pen thrown in her direction by Q.

It took another two days for Bond to suggest the same thing. “If we just… conned the universe, somehow?” he tried, a little too optimistically. “Just, kissing, you know. As though we’re going to start a relationship.”

Q shot him a look of such murderous acerbity that James Bond, who had merrily survived some of the most frightening men alive, shut up instantly.

Another five days after that, Q was prepared to try pretty much  _anything_  to get him and Bond to separate. “Fine,” he hissed, as Bond smiled smugly, grateful that Q was _finally_  conceding defeat. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”  
He dived at Bond’s face; Bond stilled him, raised an eyebrow, and leant in far more gently to brush their lips together.

Q let out a soft, shocked  _oh_.

Bond slid his arms around Q’s waist, pulling him in, gentle and coaxing and loving and gorgeous, his breath warm and soft, tea and mint and something that was simply Bond, utterly and completely Bond, and his own arms wound around Bond too, hand at the back of Bond’s neck to keep him in place, breathing him in as though he could vanish at a moment’s notice.

They broke apart, to MI6 wolf-whistles, and to Q flushed and shocked and still clinging onto Bond. “Dinner?” Bond asked gently.

Q smiled, nodded eagerly. “Definitely,” he replied, almost tripping over words. “Fuck, I didn’t…”

Bond grinned, taking a step back.

“Oh my  _god_ ,” Bond snapped, as his body froze, literally  _one step_  away from Q; Q tried to pull back too, face falling from his dazed joy into something utterly disbelieving. “You are  _kidding me_. It’s worse. It’s got  _smaller_.”

“Definitely dinner,” Q muttered, and sat down heavily at his desk, fingers tracing with half-wonder over everything Bond’s lips had touched.

\---

The pair of them had to concede that conning the universe had not gona down precisely as they had hoped. In fact, it had gone down considerably  _worse_  than they could have possibly hoped.

Q, meanwhile, was quickly coming to the realisation that he was potentially going to be stuck to James Bond for the rest of his life.

He was also quickly realising that he really,  _really_  liked James Bond, actually. And – as it happened – being only a few inches away from James Bond for the rest of his life was really  _not_  the worst prospect in the entire world to date.

Bond was not delighted, per se, with the rather obvious implication that he and Q were going to be engaging in quite a substantial amount more than a ‘brief fling’. A decent amount fo research had indicated that he was liable to be with Q for the vast proportion of his life, that his life was inextricably linked with Q, and even if the goddamn red thread ever  _did_  disappear, he would still be tied to Q in ways that were less tangible and more important.

Dinner was absolutely delightful. Bond paid, of course, and Q spent the time trying to find ways of manoeuvring his body to be less obviously  _attached_. True, everybody could see it anyway – which attracted a fair few curious looks – but both of them rather hoped to avoid seeming  _too_  intimate.

Intimacy was something they were still avoiding.

Except that they had literally needed to share showers, using the toilet was an unmitigated nightmare, both had seen far too much of the other naked and while Bond didn’t really care much, Q certainly did.

Bond had also started picking out specific clothing choices, apparently making the executive decision that Q didn’t wear nearly stylish enough clothing from an otherwise decent selection. Q, meanwhile, had started inadvertently teaching Bond to hack, given that he pretty much had to sit on Bond’s lap to be able to use his computer with any degree of success.

“Even with actual couples, this is surely  _way_  too much information?” Q asked drily, after pointedly avoiding watching James Bond try to handle a morning erection without ejaculating on Q’s bed.

Oh yes – they were sharing a bed.

Bond sighed, really rather missing the ability to wank first thing in the morning without an audience; in practise, he really missed masturbation. He couldn’t even do it the shower, given that he was needing to share space, and that would just be a little awkward for all concerned.

Q missed it too, but he was subtler about it.

In the end, it happened very unexpectedly.

Q was in a very endearing set of pyjamas, and Bond in his underwear as he didn’t own any pyjamas, and Q owned nothing that would even faintly fit.

They woke up, with Q nestled into Bond’s side, attached like a small limpet and refusing to be prised off; Bond glanced over him with a soft smile of utter affection, gently moving strands of hair out of his face, simply contended to watch the younger man sleep, utterly at peace.

The moment reached Q reached coherency, he moved back so fast Bond actually flinched a little, on instinct. “Sorry,” he mumbled, looking at Bond in horror, examining the string with a mild noise of simple despair, immensely embarrassed. “I didn’t…”

Bond just gently pulled him into another kiss, and Q melted into him a little, and the string expanded, just a little, noting that they were finally –  _finally_  – conceding defeat in the face of something the universe had known from the start.

\---

They kissed with something more than the naked, frantic passion of one-time lovers; there was a depth, a curiously wondering intimacy, that came with finding a person and discovering that there was something  _there_ , something that would not be dissuaded or removed or killed.

Something that would  _last_.

Bond rolled over, Q lying on his chest, sliding kisses down his throat, Q smiling softly and breathing in Bond, his particular scent and the edge of his smile, something far deeper and far more real than anything Q had come across before in his transitory little trysts throughout his childhood.

Meanwhile, Bond discovered more than simple sex, in the way he felt around Q. Yes, of _course_ , he wanted sex; but more than that, he wanted to give Q everything. Make him feel everything, make him alive and happy and content and sated, prove that he mattered above and beyond anything.

It was a rather surreal realisation, as it happened.

Q shuffled slightly, keeping them both pinned under the duvet, laughing as Bond nearly got smothered with a pillow, and he smiled back, and Q blushed as his body responded rather viscerally to Bond’s attentions and Bond forgave him with a deep, languid kiss and a slight shift of his own hips.

“You’re beautiful,” Bond said honestly, looking over Q’s face.

Q smiled, finger extended, eyebrows contracted as he leaned forward to pick something out of the corner of Bond’s eye, and flick it away. “Eyelash,” he said, by way of an apology.

Bond laughed openly, the sensation almost unfamiliar; he rarely had cause to truly, honestly laugh. He would smirk occasionally, or let out a contrived peal of laughter, but rarely did he honestly  _laugh_.

Unseen, the thread slackened further; neither noticed, and in that moment, neither honestly cared.

Q smiled at Bond’s laugh, leaning forward to catch his lips again, sighing out at the feel of arms around him; he allowed Bond to hold him, to keep him safe, to do what he was best at and guard Q from the world. In simpler terms, Q let Bond in, through the usual acid of his façade.

The string loosened altogether, and slid away.

They kissed deeply, softly, intimately, sighing out as they responded, symbiotic, two people who balanced and equalled one another, connected in ways they would never be able to fully understand, but maybe – just possibly – they would appreciate, in the end.


	125. The Sassy Kincade Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00Q slightly AU: Skyfall Manor wasn’t destroyed, and when Q is targeted by some ridiculous malignant organization or other, M (Mallory) orders Bond to take him to the manor as a safehouse until further notice. Cue hilarity with Bond grumpy at being assigned as a babysitter, Q getting lost on his way to the BATHROOM for chrissake how big is this fucking house anyways, and Kincade being awesome and totally shipping it and making innuendos before they even realize they like each other. – anon

“I hate everything, but especially you, and  _especially_  this bloody sodding house which, by the way, appears to be limitless and conform to absolutely no rules about relative space, dimension or general  _common bloody sense_.”

Bond let out a controlled, slow breath. Q had been an absolute, unequivocal nightmare since arriving at Skyfall; Bond hated being there enough on his own, without Q’s interference and general lack of temper or perspective. “It’s a logical house,” he snapped darkly. “You simply have no spatial awareness.”

“Be pleasant, you arrogant boy,” Kincade muttered, traipsing across the kitchen; Skyfall had never quite recovered from Silva’s assault on it, although it did have most rooms in one piece. Kincade just essentially stayed for clean-up and – apparently – occasional jibes.

Q nodded gratefully in Kincade’s direction. “Second door on your left, go up the stairs, turn right,” Bond told him slowly, carefully, hoping that Q would just follow the damn directions.

With a generally affronted sniff, Q stalked out of the room.

Kincade was failing utterly to suppress a smirk. “He seems your type, eh?” he suggested, looking Bond up and down. “Clever and sarcastic.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Also male, if you hadn’t noticed,” he pointed out, a little drily. “Although I’m sure he could pass for…”

“Don’t be an idiot,” the man said curtly, cutting Bond off midway; abruptly, Bond felt like a child again, being told off for swearing or refusing to eat vegetables or breaking something. “You’re not that bloody small-minded. You told me you swung both ways when you were sixteen”

Bond – for the first time  _since_  he was sixteen – blushed pretty much to his feet. “I did?” he asked, mouth vaguely dry. He didn’t remember that confession. He didn’t remember  _accepting_  that little quirk.

Kincade snorted. “Selective memory, eh?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “Have a think.”

“ _I fucking hate you, James fucking Bond…_ ”

“I’d better make sure he doesn’t fall down stairs or something,” Bond told Kincade, who just raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he griped, and left to find Q’s frantic yelling.

\---

Q sat, staring aggressively at a cup of not-quite-tea which had been made it what was _not_  twenty-first century kettle, but some psychotic affair that involved over gloves and whistling and an honest-to-god  _gas cooker_  which just wasn’t fair, Q had installed a glass and metal convection affair  _months_  ago, had honestly considered the damn things something that the world would just  _phase out_  after a certain stage.

In sum: he hated everything, and his tea was cold.

He dumped the tea in the sink, swearing under his breath, stomping to the door and trying to open it. “Oh, for  _fucks_  sake,” he spat, as the door refused to move. Jammed, by the feel of it. “James.  _James_  fucking  _fucking_  Bond, you open this door,  _now_.”

Something smelt wrong

Q twisted around, and his face fell, almost comically. “Oh,” he murmured. He took a moment to assess options, and turned back to the door. “ _James_ , we have a problem. I’ve set something on fire. Repeat:  _something is on fire and I cannot get out of the room the window has bloody bars on it and the door is stuck_.”

No answer.

A slight shoulder roll, and Q took a deep breath.  _“JAMES BOND_.”

Interestingly, Q could hear the swearing from miles away, despite Bond  _supposedly_  not being able to hear his preceding shouts. “What now?” he snapped, from the other side of the door.

“The door is stuck. Something is on fire. I have nothing to put out the fire, my shirt is mostly plastic, and I think it has something to do with your bloody antiquated gas cooker. I need the door open.”

Bond’s swearing became infinitely more creative. “Get back from the door,” he said wearily; Q obliged, and listened with vague amusement to the crack of attempted impact. “What the fuck did you  _do_  to this door, Q?!”

“I don’t know, why are you blaming me?!”

“That door sticks,” Kincade supplied; Q listened with delighted interest. “Has our Q got stuck?”

Q rolled his eyes. “There’s a bloody fire, and I can’t get out.”

“Not so clever, eh? How’d he manage that?”

There were no words for everything Q wanted to say, and in any case, the smoke was getting a little overwhelmingly. “ _LESS TALK MORE ACTION_ ,” he managed, before coughing violently.

One of them snorted, Q couldn’t tell which. “Mouthy bastard, isn’t he?”

“Don’t get me started,” Bond agreed; a moment later, another crash, and a sickening splintering noise. The door crashed open, letting Bond fall through. Q didn’t have a moment to respond before he was hauled out by the collar, Kincade shoving him practically  _into_  Bond’s arms to deal with the small fire Q had caused before it got out of control.

Bond just patted him down, checking him over for injury, hands strong and careful. “You’re alright?” he checked carefully. “Q?”

Q nodded slightly, looking back into the kitchen, adrenaline fading back a little. “Christ,” he mumbled. “Oh god. Okay. Thank you, James. M’sorry, Kincade…”

“He’s probably delighted, something interesting for once,” Bond teased, glancing into the kitchen, hands still warm on Q’s skin. “All alright in there?”

Kincade emerged a minute later, glancing them over, shooting Bond an amused look. “All done,” he said quietly, and actually  _winked_  at Bond, unseen. “Enjoy, gents.”

With that, he disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Bond and Q to both freeze slightly, and hastily step away from one another.


	126. The Swimming Pool Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad day…Hellow,my dear. This will be my next gifset,so…”Bond is a lifeguard at the swimming pool. One night he saves life of a young man. Boy is frozen, beaten and frightened. James takes him to his home…”Yes, I want fic with abuse!hurt!Q and protective!Bond. hurt/comfort/angst/happy ending. Thank you so much. – shipimpala

The boy stared blankly out of the window, crying expressionlessly, apparently not even slightly caring that Bond could see him. Bond continued to watch the reflection in the glass, the high cheekbones and eloquent expression, the dullness in the green and bruises scattered like machine gun fire over his face and down his thin body.

His clothes were oversized, and Bond’s. Bond – given that he worked surrounded by water – tended to have spare clothing in his locker. He had never imagined that he would dress an emaciated teenager in said clothing, but at least the kid now had some.

It was a suicide attempt. That much was patently obvious. The boy had found a swimming pool in the middle of the night, broken in; Bond had stayed late, just to get some exercise of his own, when he had seen a lost-looking teenager dart in. Bond got out, hid out of sight, and watched.

The boy went straight to the deep end, completely oblivious to any world around him. He glanced out of the ceiling-high window once, briefly, an acknowledgement of a city – of a world – that he had no further interest in touching. There was blood dribbling down his face from a gash above his eyebrow, a small amount darkening his nostril.

Bond watched as the boy closed his eyes, let out a long breath, an absolute release.

He plunged into the water with a surprisingly loud noise, bringing Bond back to reality; it took only a handful of moments to ascertain that not only could the boy not swim, he was making no attempt to. Uncoordinated limbs flailed on instinct, before being abruptly submerged.

Bond cursed, and dived into the water.

He seemed to have more clothing than body; Bond’s arms fastened around him, pulling him to the surface, forcing him back onto the pool edge, not bothering to fight back as Bond pulled him over and into the recovery position.

The boy spluttered, fell still.

Neither of them spoke for a little while. Bond left the boy for a moment while he was coughing, finding towels, setting them to one side as he reached to get the boy out of his now-soaking clothes.

“What’s your name?” Bond asked, as he tried to get the boy to respond, to sit up.

The boy’s voice was rich and simple, clear as air. “Q,” he said enigmatically. “Why are you here? I thought it was closed.”

“It is,” Bond replied, despite himself, towelling the boy’s black hair a little. “I work here.”

“Oh,” ‘Q’ replied, and closed his eyes. “That makes sense, yes.”

The blood on his face had dispersed, staining his skin pink, diluted by water. Bond looked him over – Q not verbalising so much as a stutter of complaint – and found a patchwork of bruises, varying shades. A depress of a broken rib, cuts, abrasions, a thin mottling over his throat as though something had been cinched around it.

All in all, a textbook case of abuse.

Bond sighed wearily. The kid was far too young to be dealing with this kind of shit. “Who’s been beating you?” Bond asked directly, keeping sharp, merciless eye contact with the younger man.

“I can’t tell you that,” Q replied, almost calmly, staring at the ceiling with terrifying tranquillity. “Anyway. You can go, now. This isn’t yours to deal with.”

Bollocks to that, Bond thought harshly, as the boy glanced into the water with his expression refusing to change. “I’ll take you to my place. You can dry off, calm down.”

“And if I don’t want to?” Q returned, with a little more edge.

Bond just raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ll call emergency services. That’s what you’re supposed to do, when somebody tries to kill themselves in front of you. However, I don’t think you would react well to being hospitalised, based on your injuries, and the fact that any medical professional will take one look at you and arrest the bastard who’s been doing that.”

Q’s eyes widened. “Please,” he said softly, tremulously. “Just let me go…”

“So you can try again? No,” Bond returned, with a snort. “I’m not letting you anywhere on your own. You go to hospital, or I take care of you for the night. I have qualifications, if it helps.”

Q shrugged, his eyes entirely dead. “Whatever,” he mumbled, and lay bonelessly on the edge of the pool, watching the water.

\---

Q didn’t speak for a long while, just sat in the corner of Bond’s sofa, apparently trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. Bond had made them both tea – archetypically British to the end – and patiently waited for the boy to say something. Anything, really.

He didn’t. Bond just continued to wait, and watch. He had always been very good at both, as it happened.

“I won’t ask you to tell me,” Bond said quietly, after a while. “But for god’s sake, get help. Whatever it is, whoever it is.”

Q looked up at him through bleak eyes, quiet and sad. “You don’t understand,” he murmured, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and wincing at the sensitivity. “I have to go back, I should be there now, and I don’t  _want_  to be… fuck. There’s nobody who  _can_  help.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Try me,” he said quietly. “If nothing else, I can give you somewhere safe to live.”

Q snorted slightly, staring at Bond, suddenly a fraction more intense than he had been a moment previously. “I’d love to,” he said, with definite honesty. “But, I can’t. For various reasons.”

“Like?”

“Financial dependency,” Q returned, without skipping a beat. “I’m at university, they’re paying the bills. I don’t have the money, and I’m not leaving uni, I can’t. I need to stay in education if I want a fucking  _chance_  at ever getting out again.”

Bond breathed out, finally understanding. “‘They’ are presumably your family?” he asked gently; Q froze slightly, body shuddering very faintly before falling still. Bond was unsurprised at the understated nod. “Q, there are other ways of getting through university…”

Q shook his head, an almost trembling convulsion. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he said quietly. “I don’t have a choice. I don’t want to do this any more. I’m really tired, and this will never have an endpoint, because god knows this will never leave me. I can see it already, and it’s already clouding everything and I don’t _want it to_. If this is what the rest of my life is going to be, I don’t want it.”

It was difficult to know what to say, far less what to do. Bond knew, with a sense of absolute certainty, that he was not going to allow Q to leave – or at least, not without contacting a large number of social service units first. “How old are you?”

Q glanced at him, smiling sadly. “Twenty,” he replied quietly. “Too old for anybody to do much about. If you’d found me five years ago, maybe that would have changed something. Nobody did, so… that’s that, really.”

Bond sighed, feeling shockingly old for a moment. “Q. Stay here for a while,” he asked, a note of command and plea in his tone. “I will look after you. I have money, I inherited a good deal from my family – I can help.”

“Why the fuck would you want to?” Q asked, voice cold. “I’m not a charity case. Palm me off to the police or whatever if you want, but why the hell would you spend your money on somebody you’ve just met?”

A difficult question to answer, given that Bond was a little uncertain of his own motives. Beyond the obvious – wanting to protect, wanting to save a life – there was the less tangible aspect of Q just being beautiful, young, and far too broken.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said, a light joke; Q still looked deeply sceptical, and Bond couldn’t really blame him. “Stay. For a few days, at least. Let your injuries heal a little.”

Q just blinked, watching Bond through the glasses he had left folded at the side of the pool, when he leapt in.

Bond showed him to the bedroom, and went to sleep on the sofa, hoping very hard the boy would still be there in the morning.

\---

Q was the only person in the world who could wake up before Bond did. More impressively, he was also the only person in the world who could manage to sneak around his flat, and get into the kitchen, without Bond waking up.

Thus, Bond woke up with every single nerve in his body screaming danger, to be handed a shockingly good cup of tea. “Thought you might want it,” the boy said quietly.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do with himself. Bond raised an eyebrow, pulled his legs out of the way to give Q some space to sit down. “Cheers,” he said, nodding at the tea. “I’ll sort out breakfast in a minute, just give me a moment. Did you sleep alright?”

Q shrugged slightly. The cut over his eye had darkened into a stellar bruise, the left side of his face mottled dark. “Yes,” he replied simply, with a ring of honesty. “Thank you. I… look, I really should go. Thank you for your offer, what you said yesterday… I’m sorry. I wasn’t myself last night.”

“If I hadn’t intervened, you wouldn’t have lived to be ‘yourself’ again,” Bond told him flatly. “Q, I’m not an idiot. If you go now, I know you will not be safe, and I really don’t want that.”

“It’s not your business,” Q told him, tone a little fractured; he looked up at Bond again, quiet and sad and very lost. “I…”

Bond sighed, just about avoiding annoyance. “Look,” he said, a little more commandingly. “You need to get through university. If you leave home, they’ll cut you off, but you also don’t have to be battered by them. I will be your sponsor, in an official capacity – I will give you the necessary funding, speak to the university on your behalf. I can help you find somewhere to live, if you like. For god’s sake, Q. Let me help you.”

Q looked at him steadily. “And in return?” he asked, voice slightly deadened.

“Nothing,” Bond said, quite honestly. “I know that a teenage boy isn’t going to try and kill himself because he feels it’s a better option than going home.”

When put like that, it seemed relatively understandable. Q stared at him for a moment, then looked at the sofa, apparently fascinated by the swirls in the fabric.

Both were silent for a very, very long time.

“Okay,” Q murmured, darting his gaze up to Bond again, his eyes a brilliant, bright emerald. “Alright. Thank you. I mean, are you sure…?”

Bond reached out, gently laying a hand on Q’s forearm; his face constricted into quiet panic for a single moment, before relaxing again. “I’m sure,” Bond told him calmly, firmly.

Q flickered a smile at him, fingers creeping to rest over the top of Bond’s hand, cold and elegant and beautiful, holding him in place. “Thank you,” he said again, sincerely, looking at their fingers, twined for a moment, feeling curiously familiar and utterly welcome.

“You’re welcome,” Bond told him, with a broader smile; he pulled his hand away, watching how Q’s gaze followed it, tracking upwards to Bond’s face, eyes brighter than before and utterly calm, hopeful. “I’ll get us some breakfast. You sit, drink your tea.”

Bond disappeared into the kitchen, to see Q pull the mug towards him, allowing himself a small but notable sigh of utter relief.

\---

The only real hitch with getting Q out of his house was that  _all_  the boy’s possessions remained behind. His laptop, study notes, clothing; in Q’s words, he did not have much, but he cared a great deal about what he had.

Bond sighed slightly; a couple of days had passed with Q wearing Bond’s oversized shirts, but it was getting silly now. They needed to collect Q’s things. “Will you let me come with you?” he asked. “I can wait in the car. Is there any time you know they’ll be out of the house?”

Q considered for a moment, shrugged slightly. “Monday nights Mummy is out playing bridge, Daddy tends to work late?” he suggested, almost too optimistically. “I just… I don’t really know what they’ll try, if I’m not back before that. They didn’t even know I left, I jumped out the window, but they’ll know by now…”

“Calm,” Bond suggested, in a measured tone, as Q started to wind himself up. “How long would it take, to collect your things?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe?” Q considered, after a moment. “Not long.”

“Let’s say fifteen. We’ll go now, I’ll wait in the car – if you’re any longer than fifteen minutes, I’ll come in and get you. How does that sound?”

For a moment, Q just watched him, seemingly uncertain. He still had that horribly dead look in his eyes, the expression of somebody far too used to being let down, to being hurt. “Okay,” he murmured. “I don’t… are you sure, about all of this? It isn’t yours to deal with…”

Bond rolled his eyes a little. “Q, I mean it. You need somebody looking after you, for god’s sake. Everybody does.”

“So who looks after you?” Q parried, with a note of sheer confrontation.

For a moment there was utter, clawing silence. “I lost the person who used to,” Bond explained quietly, making Q’s face fall slightly, eyes widening with an imminent apology. “Committed suicide. Drowned, actually, ironically.”

Q was quiet for a moment.

He hesitantly reached out a hand, taking Bond’s again as they had before; their fingers laced with ease, Q’s expression sympathetic but removed, aware that he was encroaching on a topic he had no right to ask about. “Thank you,” Q told him quietly; Bond looked up, raised an eyebrow. “For caring. Many become… bitter, or just unpleasant, retreat into their shells… it takes strength, to care for anything, after something like that. Just so you know, though – I don’t want to be your project. I don’t want you to think you can ‘save’ me, because you couldn’t save them. I get that you want to help, and I’m really grateful, don’t get me wrong, but not if I’m a proxy.”

“You’re not,” Bond told him, after a moment; he had wondered, in his quieter moments, whether it was that. Whether he could see Vesper in the boy’s dark hair, wide eyes. Whether there was a shadow of somebody he loved, lurking in the depths of Q’s expression, that he wanted to hold onto.

He doubted it. Q was something very different to what Vesper had ever been. In a world long before this, when Bond had been in the army, her cheating and running and falling to many different pieces, and Bond could only watch.

Vesper had not died because of pain. She had died because of sacrifice. There was a tremendous difference.

“I believe you,” Q replied softly, with a faint smile. “I mean it, though. Don’t make me into something I’m not. Historically, I’m very bad at being what other people want.”

Bond smiled, squeezing Q’s fingers gently, aware of his closeness, the warmth of Q’s slim body, permeating skin. “Alright,” he said, with as much truth as he could.

\---

Bond drummed his fingers on the dashboard, waiting. Twelve minutes, of a given fifteen. After that, he needed to go in, and retrieve Q from whatever waiting for him inside the house; he rather expected he would need to, based on the simple  _level_  of abuse Q’s body sang of. They were unlikely to let him go without a fight.

Fifteen.

Bond was already ready; he shifted out the car, prepared for potentially the worst. It was a charming suburban clone, precisely imitating everything around it, hedges perfectly trimmed and on a precisely even level with the houses around, lawn clipped, anaesthetically clean.

The doorbell rang with a light, eloquent trill.

“Yes?” the coiffed woman asked, with a terrifying smile. “If you are here to sell me anything, I want you off my property before I contact the police.”

“ _James_.”

In an instant, Bond was pushing past the rather affronted woman, moving to wherever Q’s voice had just issued from. “Q?” he called, voice harsh, ignoring the objections. “ _Q_.”

“ _I’m upstairs,_ ” Q called, voice a little fractured; Bond took the stairs two at a time, glancing around the different rooms quickly. “Here, James,  _James_.”

His voice cut off, a muted sound that Bond was instinctively wary of. The room Q was in had the door shut – a sharp twist established that it was locked – and Bond hammered on it quickly. “Fuck off,” snapped another voice, from the other side of the door. “I don’t know who in the hell you think you are…”

The woman had meanwhile moved up the stairs, looking inches from attacking Bond herself.

With a snarl, Bond lifted his foot, and slammed it into the lock.

The door crashed open, the lock splintering under the force. Q was pinned against the wall by his throat, trying to claw a man twice his size off him, body folded as though trying to curl in, protect itself. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, breath rasping foggily through a crushed windpipe, looking at Bond through half-bleary eyes.

Bond didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

Five minutes later, Q was in the front of the car, sobbing his heart out with his minimal possessions bundled in the back seat. Bond gunned the car forward, getting them a distance away from the house before abruptly pulling over. “Are you alright?” he asked, in a slightly flinty voice.

Q let out a small noise, and practically collapsed onto Bond’s lap, completely mindless of the gearstick poking into his side.

Bond just stroked through his hair gently, trying to soothe as best he could, impossibly glad Q was away from them.

\---

Q sat in the corner of the sofa again, crying silently as Bond gently patched him up; he seemed terribly fragile, in a way Bond had honestly not expected from the young man. Despite everything, he had been unflinchingly strong throughout everything so far. It had finally reached the stage of too much.

“Thank you,” he murmured to Bond, as the older man gently pressed at the split in Q’s lip, still oozing blood sluggishly. “I… fuck, I’m sorry you had to see that. I… James, do you mind me staying here? I know you said… but, I don’t want you to feel compelled, and I said, I don’t want to be a  _project_  or something fixable because I’m not, I’m more than  _this_ , and…”

Bond held a single finger against Q’s lips, stilling the rush of speech. “Q,” he said gently. “You don’t  _need_  fixing, so I don’t intend to try.”

Quite unexpectedly, Q darted forwards, and pressed a kiss to Bond’s lips.

A second later, he had flinched backwards, practically disappearing into the sofa cushions. “Shit, sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean, I know that was,  _fuck_ , I’m sorry…”

Bond laughed, very lightly, and scooped a hand around Q’s body. He coaxed the young man out, expression gentle and calm. “Q, calm,” he soothed, as Q all but panicked. “ _Q_. Listen to me, would you?”

Q hiccupped slightly, openly terrified, Bond couldn’t quite work out what of. “I know you’re probably not…”

“I think you’re beautiful, and I think you’re brilliant,” Bond told him simply. Q’s eyes widened, almost comically. “However, I’m supposed to be sponsoring you through university, and it’s been an extremely difficult few days for you. Not trying to patronise you, just pointing it out.”

Q nodded slowly, warily. “So…?”

“So if you still want this, in a few days’ time, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

-

Q tapped on the door, first thing in the morning, three days later.

Bond glanced up, smiled, crooked an eyebrow slightly; they had adapted almost instantly to living together, barring that Q had a host of learned habits. He cleaned with mild compulsion, didn’t like to eat anything without getting permission from Bond first, was terrifyingly quiet whenever he thought Bond was busy or wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Beyond that, he spent a decent amount of time just sleeping, healing.

However, he was coming out of his shell already, by increments. He had a quicksilver smile, an impossible sense of humour, and his intelligence was simply blinding. Bond couldn’t quite imagine how  _anybody_  had found anything in him to hate, could begin to conscience hurting him.

Bond barely had time to blink, before Q did the single most daring thing he had done in years.

He kissed Bond fully, properly, cupping Bond’s face in his spindly fingers. “I still want this,” he said quietly, pulling back, scanning over Bond’s expression once again, with that same, strange fear.

Bond grinned. “I believe I owe you dinner, then,” he returned, and pulled Q into another kiss.

\---

A year later, and Q had graduated, spent a very long time drinking himself senseless until two in the morning with a collection of university friends, and toppled into Bond’s flat – with Bond, who had seen fit to pick him up, mercifully – and essentially drunkenly fallen into Bond’s arms.

Bond had been intentionally wary of starting a full relationship, while Q was still in university, and Bond was technically responsible for his welfare. It would be immensely irresponsible to be in a relationship, when Q was vulnerable, and they ran the risk of Q intentionally staying with Bond  _regardless_  of how he felt, simply to ensure he didn’t have to go back home.

They had kissed, gone out for dinner, conducted a simply romantic affair; Bond had refused any explicitly sexual contact for the duration, which Q had – to Bond’s initial surprise – both agreed to, and honoured throughout, without question.

Now, everything had shifted. Q was no longer financially dependent, in any sense, to anybody. He was tied down to nobody and nowhere.

And with anywhere and anyone to choose from, he had chosen Bond.

Bond laughed, as Q barrelled into him, and half knocked him over.  “Please,” Q said, in a hot breath, into Bond’s mouth. “ _Fuck_ , James. Please.  _Please_.”

It was impossible to argue, for even an instant. Bond had been waiting for this moment, as much as Q did; weeks and months had passed, clocking towards a year, and it had been almost impossible to not be close to Q. Falling into bed had nearly-happened more than once. There was no reason not to, any more.

Bond kicked the door open with a kick, tugging Q through the door, lifting the younger man up and throwing him onto the bed; Q bounced, yelping in surprised laughter, hands pulling out to coax Bond back inwards. Bond followed, crawling over Q’s body, green irises swallowed by blown pupils. “You’re beautiful,” Bond breathed, mouth roaming over pale skin, Q keening softly with unapologetic want. “ _Christ_ , Q.”

A sharp noise, a gasping sound, Bond groaning; Q’s hips slid upwards, rocking in counterpoint to Bond’s gyrations. “James, I want you inside me,” he breathed, kissing every inch of Bond’s skin he could reach. “Please.”

The words sent a sharp shiver through Bond’s spine, kissing far deeper, more fervently. “Yes,” he replied simply, divesting Q of clothing with an ease that made Q snort outright. “Ever done this before?”

“Nope, wasn’t allowed,” Q replied with a soft gasp, hand reaching out to his bedside table, grappling blindly for lube and a condom, aware that he was relatively inebriated. “You’ll be wanting these.”

Bond laughed himself, kneading Q’s arse slightly, finger brushing over his entrance.  He let the sentence alone comparing Q’s past; it was enough to press kisses gently to the scars, the suggestions of hurts that were gradually being forgotten. “You’re _efficient_ ,” he replied, sounding very impressed indeed. “You’ve been waiting for this.”

“I love you,” Q told him, without expectation or apology. “So yes, it would be fantastic to have sex with you, after over a year of being in love with you. Oddly enough.”

Bond shook his head slightly, still, looking over Q with soft disbelief. “Well,” he murmured, as Q looked straight back at him, expression open and honest and  _beautiful_. “I love you too, Q.”

Q let out a low  _oh_.  _“_ Brilliant,” he murmured, and his face split into a grin, glancing pointedly from Bond to the bottle of lube. “You were busy, yes?”


	127. The Diabetic!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d love a completely self-indulgent h/c fic in which Q is diabetic, and Bond and Q are both captured during a mission. Q has an episode of hypoglycemia, and eventually Bond has to beg their captors for food to keep Q alive. It’s up to you whether said captors are very compliant. PS, you guys are awesome. – anon

Q was sweating, skin absurdly pale, disproportionate for the temperature. His wrists were cuffed above him, as Bond’s were, leaving him to dangle with his body trembling slightly, eyes not quite focusing.

Of course, there were inevitable bruises across his skin. Their captors had given the pair of them a decent beating, Q more so than Bond – they assumed that Q would be more pliable under torture – and left them on their own, for a decent while.

It occurred to Bond far, far too late.

“Q?”

Q’s jaw trembled, glancing up at Bond with worry drawn across his expression. “They won’t give me anything,” he said quietly, with absolute certainty. “You know they won’t. We just need to hold out.”

“How long?”

For a moment, Q tried to think, face crumpling. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, beginning to look truly frightened. “James, I don’t know what to do.”

It was all Bond honestly needed. To Q’s horror, he started yelling, insistently, bellowing down the walls; unsurprisingly, somebody eventually turned up, mainly to shut him the hell up. “He needs food,” Bond said sharply, indicating to Q. “Diabetic. He’s sinking into hypoglycaemia, and if you don’t do something, he  _will_  die.”

The man who arrived simply raised an eyebrow. “Hypo-what?” he asked, with sarcasm evident in his tone.

Bond restrained an eyeroll with difficulty. “Diabetes means blood sugar levels go wrong. He needs sugar,  _now_. Please.”

After a moment, a thin smile crossed their captor’s expression. “Tell us what we need to know, and we’ll get him what he needs,” he said, with quiet satisfaction; he had the pair of them over a barrel, and he  _knew_  it.

“If he dies, MI6 will destroy you,” Bond told them simply. “As long as we’re alive, MI6 will try and keep us that way. Use us as hostages, if you must, we’re more valuable that way – but if he dies, you will too.”

The man seemed to at least  _contemplate_  it, which was certainly something. “I’ll speak to the boss,” he told them, glancing between the two, transparently trying to assess Q’s state. “Yeah. I’ll be back.”

“Be quick,” Bond told him dismissively, and watched the man retreating, praying he would be back soon.

\---

Q’s eyes had become glassy, unable to focus, body vibrating with damp sweat sticking his clothing to his skin. “Q, stay with me,” Bond told him calmly, carefully, voice steady and controlled. “Q, look at me.”

It was patently clear that Q was struggling to keep his head up, let alone anything further. “M’gonna need my insulin too,” he mumbled. “This’ll throw ‘verything out of whack.”

“They’ll be back soon,” Bond assured him.

Of course, the door then clicked, a man walking in. “Diabetes?” he asked, looking to Q, who was visibly unwell. “I see. Well, now. We can’t risk either of you dying, just yet – but that does not mean we will be keeping you necessarily  _well_. “What do you need to reach stability?”

“Any full-sugar drinks, fruit juices, toast, anything like that. He also has insulin, it would have been in his bag when you abducted us, we might need it later. You can’t play games with food or nutrition with him; do whatever the hell you like to me, in that regard, but not him.”

The man nodded, relatively politely. “Consider it done,” he smiled; he grabbed his phone, calling a colleague, relaying the information.

A moment later, a man emerged in the doorway, a loaf of bread and a half-empty bottle of orange juice in hand. “That’ll do,” Bond agreed, as Q lost coherency by increments. “Let me? Please?”

Q gasped in breath, hands cold on his hot skin, unshackling his hands from the ceiling and letting him drop forwards. Uncoordinated, Q crumpled to the floor, gently coaxed upright with the orange juice in front of him. “There you are,” the man crooned, propping Q up, stroking gently through his hair. “Poor boy, hmm?”

Bond could see it. Their captor could see it. Bond met his gaze, noting the crawling smile, the type of expression Bond wanted to rip off him, rip him away from Q, from the soft touches and intimate tone, everything making Bond’s body revolt.

Q was completely oblivious, just trying to get his body to calm down and stop  _shaking_. Episodes were frightening, and Q had been so disciplined, had managed to avoid any real problems for months now. “Get away from him,” Bond growled, as Q curled over slightly, resting. “ _Now_.”

The smile turned into a crawling, repulsive grin. “And there we have a weakness, Mr Bond, yes?” he asked rhetorically. “You care too much for your young Quartermaster, hmm?”

Q was compus mentis enough to shoot a rather irritated glance in Bond’s direction, an expression that very clearly said  _idiot_ , which was relatively deserved. “We need information from you both. We’ll feed him, look after him – but that won’t stop us extracting the information we need, do I make myself clear?”

Bond nodded once, curtly.

Q just rolled his eyes, and stilled.

\---

They were very much true to their word: they did nothing to jeopardise Q’s life, insofar as managing his diabetes went. Q was supplied with just about enough food to keep him away from either extreme, along with his insulin shots in case of emergency.

“James, please try not to panic,” Q asked lightly, calmly. “But I’m trying something, and you’re going to absolutely kill me for it.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. Q had been beaten to hell and back earlier that very day, looked exhausted, and very much unlike somebody who was imminently going to be ‘trying’ a damn thing. “Oh?”

A small, tired smile. “I’ve been pocketing my insulin,” he explained quietly. “It’s easy enough to fake, they don’t know what they’re looking for. I’m not looking to commit a quiet suicide, I’m just tilting myself into some form of physical manifestation, I’ll fake the rest, but if they think I’m fully hyper they’ll have to call in meds. Which is when you and/or I leap into action.”

“So. You’re deliberately causing harm to your body, which is already physically compromised, to increase the  _chance_  that they’ll get you help?” Bond asked, slowly, with a touch of disbelief and a far larger touch of simple anger. “Q, that’s fucking _insane_.”

Q smiled a little. “It’s impossible to fake a fever, blood pressure, heart rate without external help,” he pointed out. “This way, I’m just giving them the physical proof. I can fake the rest, tell them I can feel that I’m in trouble, and need external help to restablise.”

“If I could get over there, I’d slap you,” Bond told him frankly. “You’re a fucking idiot, Q, this is…”

Q shook his head slightly. “Really, I’ll be fine,” he assured Bond. “You can get angry if you like, but it’s done. I’m already bloody hungry, it’s only going to be a matter of time now before it’s fully believable. We need a game changer, or this will keep going until one of us dies or breaks, I don’t know which yet.”

“Those aren’t the only…”

Bond quieted, seeing Q’s hard expression. “James, I will  _not die_  like this,” he snapped. “I’m going to be fine. MI6 will be monitoring their groups, it’ll be flagged…”

A moment of quiet, Q’s expression close to pleading. “Trust me,” he tried. “I don’t think we have other options. I’m good with drama, they’ll believe it long before I’m in actual proper jeopardy.”

“You’d better be,” Bond said firmly. “Want me to yell again?”

Q smiled, a genuine look, eyes brightening. “If you would,” he said, head dipping, and assumed an expression of pained exhaustion as Bond started yelling.

\---

 


	128. The Rejection Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you guys are amazing and brilliant and wonderful! May I have a fic where people keep remarking on how cute Bond and Q look together, and what a lovely couple they are. But what they don’t know is that one has already professed their love for the other and been roundly rejected. How it ends and who does the rejecting is up to you. Ta! :) – anon

They spent an absurd amount of time with another, and really, they made  _sense_. Their comments fired like reverberating bullets, bouncing off and impacting and hurting and healing in seconds, and it was dizzying to witness and compulsive nonetheless.

Within two months of knowing one another, they were in one another’s pockets. Bond lived in Q-branch, and Q never left, which meant they spent most time with one another. Absurdly close friends and – as rumour went – just a little bit more.

As it transpired, that was not quite an accurate statement.

Q had certainly wanted it to be more. Quite a lot more, actually. He had never been able to so easily click with another human being, share in heartbeats and know everything. It was surreal and curious and addictive.

On mentioning this to Bond, however, everything had shuddered to a dramatic halt.

Of course, Bond being Bond, he still stayed around Q-branch. They still talked every hour of the day, still bounced words off each other like lethal weapons, and ostensibly remained closer than anybody could believe two people could be without shagging one another.

“You two are just  _fantastic_  together,” Eve mentioned at one stage; Bond laughed it off, while Q faked an almost-convincing smile and excused himself a few moments later so he could disappear into the far distance and not exist for a few moments.

It is very hard, being best friends with somebody you happen to also be in love with.

Q let it all happen, because he was a damned professional, and quite honestly, it was worth all the pain in the world to have Bond there. As his lover, as his friend, it didn’t _matter_. Q wanted him there, in his life, and didn’t let him go.

The smiles remained false, and it was passable. It was just, just about, passable.

\---

Q breathed out slowly, steadily, and waited for the impending storm to break over his head with a vengeance.

It came.

“You’re signing off as my handler?” Bond snapped, slamming Q’s office door, making it rattle on its hinges and Q flinch slightly. “What the hell? You’re my  _friend_ , Q, I trust you, that’s the reason you’ve been and  _stayed_  my handler. I don’t get handled by anybody else…”

Q blinked, waited for the tirade to end.

Bond ran out of steam, of course, eventually.

“You’re going to be handled by R, from hereon in,” Q explained, perfectly calmly, utterly composed. “It is the best course of action, based on the current…”

“For  _fuck’s sake_ ,” Bond hissed, swear words unusual from his mouth. “Is this about your ridiculous crush on me? You’re not a teenager, you’re supposed to be a  _goddamn_ professional…”

Q lost it.

“I’m not a  _fucking_  teenager, but I’m a human being, and it’s fucking  _hard_  to listen to somebody you… you don’t think about it, or maybe you do, but I have to listen to you screwing anything with a pulse, literally anything, regardless of merit or beauty or even goddamn  _language_ , but me? No. I somehow rank lower than  _all_  of those. Is it the dick that’s the problem? Because god knows you don’t seem the type to discriminate, based on the random women. It’s just a warm hole, to you, isn’t it? Do you actually _have_  any, any  _possible_  understanding of emotion, of humanity, of  _hurting_  because of somebody, of not  _being_  noticed. You’ve never been forgotten in your  _bloody_  life, have you? You have to have attention, it’s how you’re made.”

Bond breathed out, literally unable to think beyond anger. “I…”

“No,” Q interjected, all but choking on his own anger. “You don’t understand. You truly, honestly don’t understand. Now get  _out of my office_.”

Bond was pale, sweat-beaded, almost shaking.

He slammed out of the office without a further word.

\---

Q remained in his office, completely barring Bond from the vicinity; he disabled the man’s codes, sent R out to deal with any and all information or tech-related incidents, and essentially refused to allow the man anywhere near him.

M was extremely distressed about the incident, but Q was having none of it. Bond had behaved horrendously, in Q’s humble opinion, and he had decided it was quite enough now.

A light tap on the door. “Come in,” Q called, pinching the bridge of his nose, a headache from hell pulsing in his temples. R slipped in, smiling at her esteemed leader, expression quietly sympathetic. “Hi. All okay?”

“It’s to do with Bond,” she told him apologetically.

Q’s expression hardened instantly. “Yes?” he asked, with transparent sharpness. “Tech-related, I sincerely hope?”

R didn’t answer for a moment. “Everybody’s becoming a little concerned about him,” she admitted quietly. “He’s… he seems different.”

“How so?” Q asked, with an assumed boredom. He was worried about Bond himself; he had seen the man’s work, watched him throughout his missions. Minimal sleeping around, almost-obedience to all orders; R relayed the same observations, making Q sigh out slowly.

Most impressively, he had changed his approach to everybody in his missions. Abruptly, nobody was unimportant. Every single mark was approached with a curious type of interest, a seemingly invested interest in their lives, their thoughts. The façade of generalised bravado, the self-interest that had pervaded every single mission he had ever conducted, had dissipated except when it actually helped the mission as a whole.

Women fell at his feet in droves, and for the first time, it wasn’t all about sex. They were comforted, questioned, cared for in a curious way that was entirely the opposite of Bond’s usual MO.

Q watched with definite interest, with mild confusion, and didn’t join the dots until Bond collared him, just outside Q-branch.

“What do you want?” Q asked tiredly.

Bond just stared at him a moment, eyes sharp and terrifyingly focused. “I want to apologise,” he announced, voice low. “I’m sorry. I was very inconsiderate.”

“Yes,” Q agreed, without hesitation. “You were more than inconsiderate, you were actively cruel, at points. Friends or not, I thought I was worth a little more than that, and I  _am_  a lot more than that. Bond, I don’t want to have this conversation right now. Please. You’re doing an excellent job on your missions, R clearly suits you, and I have absolutely nothing to say to you right now.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, nodded very slightly. “I’m doing my best, Q,” he said quietly.

Q nodded sharply, and walked away. 

\---

Alec smiled, leaning into Q, their posture quietly intimate with Q entirely oblivious to that fact. They had been talking for a while, just random things, exchanges of jokes and anecdotes and playful banter; they had always been good friends, not quite as close as Q and Bond, but close nonetheless.

Out of nowhere: “Want to go out for dinner, Q?”

Unexpectedly, without thought or perception, an instant response: “Yeah. Why not. I’ll be done at half eight-ish, if you like?”

Alec grinned. “Brilliant.”

-

Bond didn’t hear about the relationship for over a month, which – given that Bond and Q were essentially his closest pair of friends – was quite a testimony as to how good Alec and Q were at keeping secrets.

“You’re  _dating him_?” Bond snapped, inches away from beating Alec to a pulp. “Why the _hell_ , Alec?”

Alec just raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t want him,” he pointed out, very fairly. “I did. I do. You  _missed it_ , James. He would have given you the world, a month ago, and you behaved like an absolute bastard.”

“I’m aware,” Bond growled. “I regret it.”

Alec, in a spectacularly fast move, slammed Bond against the wall, pinning him by the throat. “You back off,” he hissed. “I’m not losing him, James. He’s almost over you now, and I’ve waited for weeks for this point. If you get involved, bits of you will be found in the Atlantic, understand?”

It was always novel, to be pinned against the wall by somebody who could actually keep him there. “Let him choose,” Bond growled at him lividly. “I fucked up, Alec. Q’s always been important to me, you  _know_  that, but everybody I’ve ever dated has died…”

“Don’t pull that on me,” Alec snapped, his grip closing, choking. “I’ve lost people too. I’m not losing Q because you’ve finally realised the obvious. He deserves better than that. Leave him  _alone_. He’s happy,  _with me_.”

Alec dropped him; Bond immediately took on a fighting stance, ready for a fight with Alec in the bloody corridor, if he had to.

To his surprise, Alec just moved away. “You’re pathetic,” Alec told him quietly. “Back off, James.”

He walked away.

Bond watched him with utter disbelief, almost shaking with suppressed energy. He walked away, the opposite direction to Alec, moving out of the MI6 building to find some bar where he could drink himself catatonic, and forget.

\---

Q was utterly exhausted.

“James, what do you  _want_?” he asked, as the man pushed open his office door; Q had taken off the locks barring Bond from Q-branch, in the hope of not being petty, and actually feeling a lot better about the man now he was in a solid relationship.

Bond pushed the door closed. “Q, I need to talk to you.”

Q shook his head slightly. “Not right now,” he asked, voice close to a plea. “Seriously, not now.”

“Yes, now,” Bond stated, walking to Q’s desk, leaning over it a little. “Q, you shouldn’t be with Alec.”

For a moment, Q literally froze, suspended animation. “Christ,” he murmured. “Of course. Of  _course_. Just a quick question, before you start what I’m sure is a very well thought-out monologue: what the  _fuck_  are you playing at? It’s not your business who I choose to be with, and it’s  _Alec_ , he’s a supposed friend of yours…”

“It’s nothing against Alec,” Bond told him immediately, very firmly. “It’s about you. About us.”

Q’s eyes widened slightly, utterly disbelieving. “Bond, there  _is_  no ‘us’. You made that _painfully_  clear, if memory serves. There is no ‘us’, and there will  _never_  be an ‘us’, I just…  _fuck_ , I cannot  _begin_  to express how angry I am right now.”

Bond blinked; it was certainly not the reaction he had anticipated. “I made a mistake, in all of this,” he said sadly, pleadingly. “Q, I… I know I’m late in this, I should have realised a long time ago, but you  _know_  we’d be brilliant together…”

“I’m sure we would be,” Q agreed.

Bond didn’t even try to suppress a smile, daring to hope, to honestly hope. “I…”

“James – yes. I’m sure we’d be excellent together, but we’re not. I’m with Alec. He cares about me, looks after me, and most importantly? He’s never hurt me. He never would, he never  _could_. You know how much we’re starting to mean to each other, and you choose  _now_? It’s not fair, James. You can’t show up whenever it suits you, and think there will ever be  _anybody_  there waiting for you. I’ve gone on to better things.”

Bond was rendered utterly speechless, Alec’s words echoing in his ears, the realisation striking that he truly had missed it. He had been offered everything, and wasted it. “Q… Q, I can’t walk away now.”

Q smiled, with breathtaking sadness. “You have every other time,” he pointed out. “Please, respect me enough to just stop this, now. I deserve better than that, actually, and it’s been Alec who’s made me realise that.”

Abruptly, Q stopped talking, mouth falling open slightly. “Oh. That’s actually something of an epiphany.”

“What do you mean?” Bond asked, voice razor sharp.

“Don’t worry,” Q murmured, shaking his head slowly. “Look, you should go. Please.”

Bond left.

The realisation: one didn’t always have to be the person waiting.

Q grabbed his phone. “Alec?”

“Hello there,” came the reply, warm and evidently happy to have been called. “Everything alright?”

Q smiled, feeling abruptly like a teenager, alone in his office with his phone tucked against his ear. “Yes,” he replied easily, softly, and let out a slow breath.

A leap of faith. Not waiting, not any more.

“I just wanted to tell you I love you,” Q said simply.

A moment of silence, terrifying seconds.

Alec’s voice, his crooked smile, the underlying half-laugh of disbelief.

“I love you too.”


	129. The Immortal Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Centuries ago, James tricked his lover into drinking an immortal elixir without consulting him. Furious, his lover leaves and wanders the earth avoiding James’s pursuit. They only find each other again when James, now 007, meets his new Quartermaster in the National Gallery. – anon

James Bond had been alive since time immemorial; far more than a simple ability to seemingly revive, he had  _never_  died. He never would. He had an eternity to exist, to be alive and keep on living, in perpetual search for the creature who had made it worth finding a way to live forever.

Falling in love had been the best, and the worst, thing Bond could have imagined. He had found somebody who completed him, who made him utterly illogical and coaxed him into doing absurd things in the hope of never, ever losing the one person he had allowed himself to love.

Q, however, had been livid. Bond had refused to tell him, not until it was far too late, and Q had entered into immortality.

To Bond’s devastation, he had left.

For centuries, Bond had been searching. Desperately trying to track down his lover, to apologise, to live out their eternity  _together_ ; it had occurred, of course, that Q had found some way of taking his life. Furious, and not wanting immortality, found some way to circumnavigate it.

In lieu of anything else to do, he decided to wait in the UK in the hope that Q would come to him. One day, maybe. He joined the secret service – eternity had given him a damn long time to train in combat and espionage – and waited, patiently, carefully phasing his makeup to allow the aging process to seem half-genuine.

His meeting with the new Quartermaster was in a curious location, but given that MI6 had been destroyed, unsurprising in practise. Bond settled on the bench, staring at a painting, feeling a little tired of everything. Q was in no sense near his mind; after a good five hundred years without seeing him, not every thought tended towards his lover. He simply wanted his equipment, to go on his next mission.

“It always makes me a little melancholy,” a voice murmured from next to him. “A grand old warship, being hauled ignominiously away for scrap…”

Bond rolled his eyes slightly; the boy was clearly some pretentious art fanatic, hoping for some conversation with mild irony underpinning his speech. Clever, but not what Bond needed when he was supposed to be meeting somebody rather important. “Excuse me,” he said, and shifted.

“Double-oh seven,” the boy interrupted.

Bond stilled, still looking towards the exit and hoping very hard he was wrong; his Quartermaster could not be some young upstart, it was ridiculous

The next word caused him to turn with dizzying speed, breathless and uncertain and unable to even slightly believe it. A single word, with the right intonation, the right lilt and tone and how in the  _hell_  had he not recognised it, he had spent so very many years waiting that he had half-forgotten, but one word, a single  _word_ , and he remembered everything:

“James.”

\---

It was extraordinary, how quickly everything shattered to a stop. “Q,” Bond breathed, immediately reaching for him, establishing – somehow – that it was truly  _him_. Half a millenium, a truly unimaginable stretch of time, so many lifetimes.

And somehow, he was  _here_.

“Hello,” Q replied simply, with a slight smile, looking at Bond with a slight shadow of wonder. “How are you?”

Bond didn’t bother with more speech. He pulled Q forward, closing him in his arms with crushing force, as though the man would slip from his grasp like so much sand if he was given the chance. “Oh  _god,_ ” he managed. “I’ve missed you so much,  _so much_ , I thought I wouldn’t see you again…”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Q returned gently, cradling his head on Bond’s shoulder, eyes closed for a long moment, breathing him in. “You are such an idiot, James Bond. And I’m sorry. I’ve been looking for you for a couple of hundred years, you know; it was hard work without computers or planes, though, and I thought… I thought for a while that you’d somehow found a way to die, and I just…  _fuck_  James, I’ve missed you.”

Bond laughed slightly, into Q’s hair. “I’ve never heard you swear before,” he pointed out, vision swimming as he pulled back, cupping Q’s face in his hands. “You look incredible.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Occupational hazard of immortality,” he quipped drily.

At least Bond had the intelligence to look very, very repentant. “I should have asked,” he admitted softly. “I just… Q, I couldn’t imagine a life without you. I couldn’t imagine letting somebody as extraordinary as you die. I wanted… I  _want_ … to spend forever with you. Real eternity. You know I can’t die, I’ve never been able to, and I found a way to keep you with me… it was selfish, I know, and I…”

Q raised a single finger, placed it over Bond’s lips.

A prolonged moment of silence. “I was angry,” he admitted quietly. “But James, losing you was the worst thing I have ever done, and ever since I could, I’ve been trying to track you down. You had to become a  _secret agent_ , didn’t you? Off all records…”

Bond laughed slightly, wiping the dampness away from his eyes. He hadn’t cried in decades. “And you’re my Quartermaster?” he snorted. “Superb. Really, well done Q.”

“And you, double-oh seven,” Q returned, gorgeous green eyes glinting. “I should give you your equipment, you have a job to do. I’ll be on comms if you need me, promise. I won’t lose you again, James Bond.”

Bond just leaned in, and kissed him, with the lost love of five hundred years.


	130. The Homeless!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering if you could write a fic based on shipimpala’s gifset of writer James and homeless Q? Thank you guys, I love your writing :) – anon

Bond almost didn’t see, which would have been absolutely disastrous; in his defence, the figure just ambled forward, attention elsewhere, a strange type of smile on his face as he reached up an arm, as though trying to brush the stars into his elegant hands, crush them to dust and the bright fragments fall around him.

In truth, he was beautiful. Dark hair, pale skin, eyes that caught every shimmer of the night sky.

Which all came later, given that Bond’s initial concern was not killing him.

He swerved violently, the boy turning with more curiosity than alarm, only just noticing the blazing headlights and potential imminent death.

Bond rolled down the window, initially livid. “For god’s sake! Kid, what are you doing on the road?!”

The boy gaped slightly, looking between the man to the sky again, almost confused. “I-I’m..so sorry, sir. I didn’t…I just…I’m sorry. I didn’t see …your car. I just watched the stars,” he explained, another brief glance upwards, lips parted, breath misting as he looked back. “I’m sorry.”

“You…what?” Bond managed. It was about three in the morning, and they were several miles away from any houses.

Which actually drew his attention: the boy had his fingers rammed into his pockets, but the jacket was far too thin for the weather outside, and the shirt was extremely threadbare, everything of him speaking of unkemptness. The cold didn’t seem to be bothering him in the slightest; he just nodded upwards, smiling distantly. “It’s a beautiful night, sir…”

“I… right, beautiful night,” Bond conceded, shaking his head slightly. “Listen, it’s late, and… Christ, how old are you?!”

The boy shrugged slightly. “Twenty-one?” he tried; Bond raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Eighteen.”

“Where do you live?”

The boy just glanced around him, expression vaguely apologetic. “I don’t really have a fixed home, shall we say,” he said quietly. “I was in a YMCA for a bit, but I had to leave again. I’m fine, honestly, I’m hoping to find somewhere for the next couple of nights.”

Bond just rolled his eyes slightly. “Get in the car.”

“What?”

“I have a flat, with a sofa and hot water,” he said simply. “And food, come to think of it, looking at you.”

“I…I shouldn’t, Mr…”

“Bond. James Bond.”

\---

The boy spent most of the car journey not really concentrating, holding out his hands to th events to warm up his hands, and glancing at Bond intermittently as though the man was likely to eat him alive.

“So,” Bond asked, after a while. “Are you ever going to give me your name?”

A glance, eyes widening with surprise. “I…” he managed, gaping a little. “Q.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Just Q?”

“Just Q,” he confirmed, looking at his hands. “Sorry. I’ve been Q for a while now, I don’t like using my birth name.”

It wasn’t quite right, but Bond didn’t press the matter. “Q suits you,” he said, with a slight smile. “Of all the letters you could have chosen.”

Q smiled, very faintly, and silence fell once again.

Bond parked in a small enclosure that housed cars for all the flats in the area, and glanced at Q. “Out you get,” he said, nodding at the door; Q did as he was told, looking up at the flats with quiet curiosity. “I’m on the first floor.”

The boy trailed after him, observing everything; Bond unlocked the flat, let him in. “Bathroom’s up there on the left. Tea?” he asked easily, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a freestanding coat hanger. “I’ve also got some spare clothes, if you want to change – no offence, but I’m guessing you’ve had those a while.”

Q shrugged slightly. “I don’t own much, these days,” he admitted quietly. “I mean, I don’t want to impose…”

Bond rolled his eyes, and propelled Q down the corridor. “Anything you’re allergic to?” he asked simply; Q shook his head. “Good. I’ll put something together, and I’ll leave some clothes outside the door. They’ll be too big for you, but they’re warm.”

A small, shy smile. “Thank you,” Q said softly. “If I can ever repay you…”

“Have a shower, get warm,” Bond said, cutting over him. “Honestly? I’m just happy you’re not spending a night outside in this weather. It’s cold, I nearly ran you over… just don’t worry about it, alright?”

“Thank you,” Q repeated, and lingered for a moment, watching Bond with mild uncertainty; he just nodded at the bathroom, and Q vanished into it.

Bond watched him go, shook his head very slightly. He had not expected the evening to go like this.

He could think about it later; for now, it was enough to simply head into his kitchen, and start getting some food together for his skinny house guest.

\---

Q emerged a little later, hair sticking damply to the back of his neck, dressed in Bond’s jeans with a rather oversized shirt. Bond had also handed him one of his old running hoodies, which swamped him in a way that exceptionally endearing. “How’re you doing?” he asked lightly, and pushed a toasted cheese sandwich towards the boy, along with a host of vegetables and even a bowl of pasta. “You need to eat,” he supplemented, at Q’s wide-eyed look.

“I don’t want to put you out,” Q said, a touch nervously. “I mean, it isn’t yours to worry about, I’m…”

Bond waved him off with a mildly irate expression. “Stop it,” he interrupted, not unkindly. “You’re not a burden, you’re a human being who needs somewhere to sleep when it’s less than ten degrees outside.”

Q didn’t actually attempt to object further; he brought the sandwich closer, and took a large, satisfied bite from it. “Thank you,” he mumbled through it.

It was difficult not to smile slightly. “You’re welcome,” Bond told him, a little softer. “So – what were you looking at? In the sky?”

“It was beautiful,” Q said, and swallowed slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t know, I don’t have words for it. Like a map, just something untouchable, larger than anybody could imagine – and yet, we imagine. We can track it, define it. I like doing that. Or did, sorry. Numbers and maths, all those sorts of things, they can find the links between them… and then there’s just the fact of  _looking_ , of seeing all of it. Does that make sense?”

Bond, by that stage, was outright grinning. “Yes,” he replied, very softly. “I write, Q. I’m a writer. And I’m warning you now that I’ll probably steal what you just said verbatim, for some stage in the future.”

Q’s eyes widened slightly. “You write?” he asked, eyes slightly wide. “I mean… what kind of things?”

“I started in journalism, but now work more on my own terms – poetry mostly, I have a novel that I perpetually can’t finish, and obviously I have to get some commissions in to pay the bills,” he explained, basking just a little in Q’s clearly impressed expression. “And you like maths, I suppose?”

For a moment, Q was very quiet. “I love computers,” he said, in a slightly sad voice. “I used to… I used to work with them a lot. Dismantling, exploring devices, things like that. I mean, just in my own time. I was pretty good, actually.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Q,” he said, in a slightly harder tone, something slightly less avoidable. “What happened?”

Q glanced at him quickly, eyes darting back downwards to his hands. “I’ll be gone in the morning,” he told Bond, in something like a whisper. “Nothing will happen, I promise.”

“ _Q_.”

“I hacked into MI6,” Q told him. “They’re trying to trace me, obviously. I wasn’t exactly upset about leaving home, so I’ve now been running, various YMCA’s and hostels before they can find me again, just… moving around.”

Bond was, for one of the first times in his life, utterly speechless.

\---

It was only a matter of time before MI6 came knocking. Q had literally warned him, after all, and while it was all very egalitarian for Bond to refuse to allow the boy to leave, there was the stunning inevitability of potentially getting arrested for harbouring a teenage boy who had apparently hacked into their systems.

Especially when he hadn’t  _meant to do it_.

Bond was not an idiot, and thus knew he was clearly in the presence of a prodigiously talented kid. Q’s fingers were those of a pianist, a typist, and he had a smile like the sun and behind those glasses was a spark of brain that Bond was only beginning to quite grasp or understand.

“Q, what do you suggest?”

Q shrugged slightly, eyes wide. “I don’t want you to end up in trouble,” he said honestly. “I know you’re… look, this isn’t exactly the pinnacle of secure locations. They’re probably going to come in all guns blazing, and you…”

The door was smashed in. “ _Stay exactly where you are_.”

“Q, behind me,” Bond growled, pulling the slim young man easily, the boy too shocked to do much else as the room was swamped with gunmen. “Leave him alone, he’s not done any harm…”

Bond was noble but unarmed, and Q was terrified, and Bond was wrenched away from the young man who cried out his name, floundering with arms everywhere, desperate and frantic. “ _James_ …”

“Get  _off him_ , you bastards,” Bond yelled, wondering in some abstract part of his brain just quite  _when_  his life had turned into a soap opera. “Q, it’ll be alright, I won’t leave you, I promise I won’t…”

Bond was hit on the head with something, in time to see Q’s eyes roll back in his skull, tears trickling silently down his cheeks.

-

Bond woke in a cell.

“What is your association with the boy who is identifying himself as ‘Q’?”

There was a moment of simple disbelief; Bond was  _nothing_ , he knew nothing of Q or MI6 or anything like that. He had found a boy who needed help, and he would never regret that. “Where is he?” Bond asked instead, a snapping edge to his voice. “If you’ve hurt him…”

The man opposite looked tremendously unimpressed. “You are James Bond, a writer – how does a man like you become so  _involved_  with espionage, hacking? As to Q himself, he is no longer any of your concern. If you supply us with what we need, then we can allow you back to your normal life.”

Bond reflected back on Q, on the boy, on his hurt and his pain and he deserved  _so much better_ , and Bond smiled like a shark. “I’m not telling you a damn thing,” he said frankly, sat back, blue eyes sharp, and waited.


	131. The Prison Bondlock Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re amazing! Seriously, one of the best fanfic writers I’ve had the pleasure of reading! Could you do a 00Q prison scenario? Like, Bond and Q don’t know each other but they end up at the same max-security prison and Bond saves the pretty new boy from something awful. They like each other so Q fervently thanks him. NSFW please please please Dom!Bond and Sub!Q is like my favorite pairing and Q really is so pretty ;) – anon

Q swallowed, holding his bedding tightly against his chest as he walked through; the wolf whistle was disconcerting, to say the least, and Q had no idea what to do with himself.

A collection of pre-meds, all people who knew what they were doing; no manslaughter in here, these were cold blooded killers. He looked up to the cell numbers; he was meant to have his own, they all were in this unit, but overcrowding meant that roommates were hardly uncommon.

He was thankfully only in with one – apparently, the guards had taken pity on him. Cell number 221, cell mate: S. Holmes.

It promised to be interesting.

Q rolled his shoulders, ignoring the calls from the other inmates as he entered his cell. ‘S Holmes’ lay on the bed, looking to all the world like a particularly attractive corpse, fingertips together under his chin, barely breathing.

"Hello, I’m…" Q began, placing his bedding down on the bottom bunk.

"Cyber terrorist, prolific if in here, young and foolish, socially inept, aged nineteen years old, mildly asthmatic and has a firm dislike for shellfish. Don’t go into cell 232."

S. Holmes said nothing else as Q made up his bed cautiously, wonderingly. “How did you know about the shellfish?” he asked after a moment.

A smile curled around the other’s lips. “Lucky guess; I have yet to meet a man who truly  _loves_  shellfish.”

"Why shouldn’t I go into cell 232?" Q asked, sitting down opposite Holmes.

‘S’ smiled, eyes closing dreamily, though said nothing more.

Eventually, Q had to leave the cell; Holmes’s silence was enough to drive one mad. Outside was a large, open space, a ping pong table at one end, a few ‘entertainment’ concepts. Most men were crowded around a table, where what appeared to be a round of poker was being played, with no chips to speak of.

He approached warily, looking at the hungry criminals. “What are they playing for?” he asked one; the man turned to him, smile mocking.

"Cigarettes," he said slowly, looking Q up and down. "And the chance at the new boy."

"What?" Q asked, as a large blond man lay down his hand. Apparently he was the winner, as the rest of the men howled and groaned in equal measure. His opponent, also blond - though his clearly bleached – sneered, stood without a word, and moved back to his cell.

232.

Q swallowed, pulse cantering upwards as the winner approached him. “Bond, James Bond,” the man introduced himself, offering his hand. “You’re Q?”

"Yes," Q nodded, aware of the eyes on him. Bond frowned, looking at him for a long moment.

"You’ll do. No one touch him," Bond called, the men leaving dejectedly. "Q? Interesting name."

"Wait, why can’t they touch me?" Q asked, falling into step as Bond moved away from the table, not quite keeping up.

Bond smiled at him, quietly amused. ” I’ve got ‘dibs’.”

"Dibs?" Q asked, having to hurry to keep up with him. "How can you have…?"

Bond paused. “You are the most attractive thing to happen in this place for the past year. If I had lost, you would have been torn apart,” the man informed him casually.

Q blinked. “Thank you,” he managed after a moment. “So what, you are the only one allowed to tear me apart?” he joked, swallowing as Bond smirked.

"Yes. Lovely meeting you. Don’t go into cell 232," he said calmly, echoing Sherlock’s warning.

Q’s lips tightened, a little uncertain. “Are you going to…?”

"Do you want me to?" Bond asked fairly, leaning against the wall, still with his engagingly amused smile. He was attractive certainly; older, muscled, beautiful blue eyes.

Q gaped slight. “No, no of course not,” Q held up his hands, as Bond chuckled.

"Well, then,” Bond replied, as though it was quite simple. “I’ll be seeing you, Q.”

Bond vanished, and out of seemingly nowhere, Holmes popped up. “He won then?” he asked smugly, looking at Bond’s retreating back. “Wonderful, Jim owes me a free hit…”

On that enigmatic note, Holmes vanished.

Into cell 232.

\---

Holmes was a nightmare in the evening. Q had spent the day largely trying to avoid human contact, but his cellmate was a constant feature, up most of the night; Q couldn’t sleep for the man’s mumblings, and the ceaseless scratch of pen on recycled paper.

Groaning, Q placed his head beneath his pillow and tried to fall asleep with minimal degrees of success.

Waking was not a pleasant experience, the remembrance of where he was, what his life had become. Blearily he managed to get up and dressed, ignoring Holmes doing his best impression of The Thinker whilst using the loo.

The canteen was packed with inmates, all in varying degrees of consciousness. Q grabbed a tray and watched as his bowl was filled with something that might have once resembled muesli, before looking around the tables for an empty space.

Bond. The man moved deliberately, shifting to make room for Q. Q let out a slow breath and moved as prompted, several other inmates watching him. Bond nodded to him as he sat down, though said very little as they ate; Q couldn’t deny being quite grateful for that, focusing his attention on breakfast, and the merciful appearance of very poor quality tea.

“Follow me,” Bond instructed, when they were done; Q did as he was told, back of his neck prickling unpleasantly. Bond’s cell was identical to his own, two beds, a sink and a toilet with some storage space. “Welcome,” he said, nodding to the bed opposite. “My cellmate’s out, he won’t mind.”

Q sat slowly, intrigued. Bond offered no more answers, simply lay back with a book and – essentially – ignored him. After a few minutes, Q simply had to ask: “Why am I here?”

Bond looking up at him in mild surprise. “So that they all think I am having sex with you,” he explained simply, returning to his book as Q blushed furiously.

“And that’s important?”

“Vital. Otherwise I am not a figure of dominance and they will see you as a target,” Bond confirmed, placing the book down; Chinese characters stared up at Q, making him blink with surprise. “Of course, if you’re bored…”

“No, all fine. Good,” Q nodded, looking over Bond’s impressive physique; throughout his rather sleepless night, he had to confess that his thoughts had tended in that general direction. Bond inclined his head, offering a small smile. “Can I ask what you are in for?”

“Double homicide,” Bond replied flatly.

“Really?” Q returned, unsure of what to think. “I mean, you don’t seem the type…”

“Who does?” Bond said, with a slightly edged smile. “They killed my fiancé.”

“So, a crime of passion?” Q asked, a little curiosity.

“No, fully planned,” Bond contradicted, tone remaining rather even. “One of them was under police protection without my knowledge, however. I was caught sawing up his body for disposal.”

There was little to be said, after that point. They didn’t speak for another twenty minutes, Q distracting himself with the other scattered belongings in the cell; when Bond eventually stood, he sent Q a smile that reached all the way to Q’s groin. “Why haven’t you, can I ask?” Q asked, a little tentatively.

“Murderer Q, not a rapist. The difference is important,” Bond told him; there was something in his eyes, a hardness Q hadn’t seen before. “Limp a bit, and…”

“Stay out of cell 232?”

“You’ve got it.”

-

The days continued in a similar pattern: Q would go to Bond’s cell once or twice a day, the man would watch over him at meals and in the showers, naked and soapy and quite distinctly affecting Q’s self-control.

During his second week, Q sat alone, book in hand. A nervous-looking inmate shuffled closer, glancing over him. “Q? It’s Q right?” he asked, in a rather endearing Irish accent. “Look I don’t mean to bother you, but someone said that you were good with technology…”

Q looked up: the man was about his height, with messy hair and curiously dark eyes. “I wouldn’t ask, but my cellmate, he’s getting a little antsy – you know?” he continued, with a nervous smile, one tinged with just enough fear that Q felt pity tug at him. “And the radio, it keeps him sane. Literally.”

“I don’t know how much I can do…” Q began; a single look at the other inmate cut him off. It was difficult not to empathise with another skinny type, like him, one who would be easily eaten alive by the system. “Okay. I’ll have a look.”

 “Oh thank you, thank you so much,” the man enthused with tangible gratitude, as Q placed down his book and followed him down the hall. “It broke yesterday, just stopped working…”

Q was so busy listening that he barely noted where he was going, his brain dimly registering the number 231.

Only, they weren’t going into 231.

Q realised a heartbeat after the door of 232 closed behind him.

\---

“Welcome little one,” a voice called with an audible smile, Spanish accent threading the vowels.

Q had to leave. He turned in an immediate move to escape, only to find his way blocked by the Irishman, the dark eyes taking on a cold edge. “I told you,” said man mocked, all sense of fear forgotten. “He’s so  _antsy_.”

“Do not frighten the poor boy,” the other said with a small tut, as Q wheeled around. The speaker was the large, bleached-blond man from the poker game; Q had seen him around, though never paid too much attention. “Jim can be so  _rude_ , no?”

“What do you want?” Q tried, eyes flicking to the door, where ‘Jim’ still leant.

“Introductions first, I think,” the man replied with a light, benevolent smile. “My name is Raoul Silva, the man behind you is James Moriarty. We call him Jim. And you are ‘Q’, hmm?”

Q nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

“Wonderful, so much better once we all know each other,” Silva commented, standing with a curious form of grace. “As to what I want, I only wish to make you an offer.”

Q’s mouth was terrifyingly dry, everything in him holding tension. “What sort of offer?”

“Protection, care, amusement…” Silva told him, moving until he was well within the realms of Q’s personal space. “I can help you, if you will let me. Little trinkets, toys, wires and cables and all sorts of pretty things. Look around, we are of the same kind.”

Q glanced around, taking in the cell for the first time. It was far nicer than either his own or Bond’s; it even had a fridge, a kindle, and a few other little luxuries.  “And in return?” he asked, returning his attention to Silva.

“No more than Bond is asking,” Silva told him lightly, fingers reaching to Q’s chin and tilting his head up. “Beautiful…” he observed, kissing Q’s forehead in a way that made him inwardly wince.

“Don’t, don’t do that…” Q replied, backing away slightly. “Look, thanks, but I am really not interested.”

Silva glanced over Q’s shoulder, catching his cellmate’s eyes. “Well, that is a pity,” he conceded. “I shall add another tick in Bond’s column.”

Q’s eyes narrowed faintly. “What?”

 “You are the latest victory my dear,” Silva told him. “It is always as such, he is a marvellous poker player; each time something fresh gets brought in, he takes them in. I assume he isn’t fucking you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Q’s silence was enough of an answer. “But you want him to, yes? He is  _clever_ , a clever trick. I find it… abhorrent, to lie like that.”

Q blinked, processing the new information. It made sense, of course:   _‘You are the most attractive thing to happen in this place for the past year_ ’, Bond’s words, echoing. The man had never laid a finger on him, yet he found himself craving it, craving the attention. Perhaps a quiet and genuine crush on Q’s part, perhaps a remarkably good manipulation on Bond’s.

“You are still here?” Silva looked up, breaking Q out of his thoughts.

Q blinked in shock. “I can leave?!”

Silva chuckled; behind Q, Jim slid away from the door in a serpentine motion. “Of course,” Silva said, with an almost polite nod. “Although, it does sound like a bit of a ruckus out there…”

Q left hurriedly, in time to see James Bond land a knock-out punch on another inmate. Two others lay out-cold on the floor. Bond’s nose and forehead were bleeding, his breathing heavy as he clutched his side. “Q!” he greeted with a surprisingly intact nod, Q rushing forward.

“This is your choice of protector?” Silva asked gently, breath close against Q’s ear as Bond received a blow to the stomach, knocking him to his knees. “Interesting choice, querido.”

Q ignored him; he waited for everything to die back, the guards mercifully intervening and Q managing to reach Bond’s side. “Come on,” he murmured. “We need to get you to medical…”

“No,” Bond shook his head, grasping Q’s offered arm. “I’ll deal with it.”

“But…”

_“I will deal with it.”_

Q nodded, and helped the man back to his cell. When they arrived, Bond collapsed down heavily on the bed, looking annoyed and slightly pained.  “Sorry about that, disagreement. Are you alright?” he asked, as Q ran hot water. “They didn’t…?”

“I’m fine,” Q replied, looking around for a flannel. “Just offering me protection, or something like that.”

“Did you take it?” Bond asked as Q wet the cloth, before moving over to him as beginning to dab at the worst of the blood.

Q breathed out for a moment. “No,” he replied simply.

Bond visibly relaxed, letting out a slow breath. “That’s good,” he returned, and both pretended to ignore the presence of the other’s hand, clutching their own.

\---

Q returned somewhat regretfully to his cell that evening. Dinner had been largely uneventful, but Bond’s overall proximity was beginning to be a little overwhelming. As Q lay back, he heard Holmes come in, the door locking behind him.

In his mind, Q replied the earlier events of the day, Silva’s offer – his insinuations, the feel of warm lips on his forehead… He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice Holmes’s approach until the man was right above him.

“What do you…?” Q began, only for his cellmate to pounce, large hand pinning Q’s thin wrists. “What the hell? Get off me, get OFF!” Q cried, writhing in Holmes’s grip. His cellmate ignored him, instead reached behind for a thin syringe, Q’s eyes widened in shock. “No, I don’t want…” he tried, but the needle had found his arm, its toxic dose entering his bloodstream. Holmes let go, watching Q intently as the boy gasped.

Seven seconds and the world started to melt. Everything was… easy, light. No longer was Silva playing on his mind, or Bond’s muscular body pressing up against his imagined form. Euphoria overtook him, giggling he lay back, body suddenly heavy. In the background Holmes had taken a fresh needle and was, quite impassively, joining him.

-

The next day dawned on a deadened body. Q’s frame felt as though it were made of lead as the alarm woke him. Sherlock, too, had the same glazed look in his eyes as they headed out. Q’s limbs shook, the memory of the previous evening seeming unreal. Terrifying as it had been, it was the first time since his trial began that he had truly felt happy. Perhaps the happiest he had ever been in his life; a simple form of utter release, escape, some approximation of euphoria that had overwhelmed him. He looked around his cell with curious intensity; it seemed so much greyer, the walls closer, the air thicker.

Bond knew. It took one look at Q’s face and he asked. Q didn’t bother to lie, explained what Sherlock had done in a low voice. Bond nodded, one hand snaking protectively around Q’s back. Instinctively, Q felt himself draw away. Bond’s hand was so  _hot_ , and the food made his stomach roil, and he shuddered vaguely before returning to Bond’s cell, as normal.

Throughout the time he watched, eye twitching slightly behind his glasses as Bond continued to read, as he always did. “Your fiancée, what was she like?” Q asked, as Bond paused.

“Beautiful,” he replied, not looking up.

“You miss her?” Q asked, tongue flicking out over dry lips.

Bond raised an eyebrow, turning from the book. “Oddly, yes,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered,” Q said hastily, turning back to his own book, not really managing to make words order themselves properly while Bond read on in silence.  “How’s the head?”

“Sore, and yours?” Bond returned, looking at Q’s trembling hand.

“Fine, all fine,” he swallowed.

The silence, something that had been so calming, felt horrifyingly oppressive. Q just wanted Bond to  _do_  something. Anything. Say something. Speak or react or  _respond_. Anything at all to alleviate the sheer  _boredom_. What would happen – Q wondered – if he kissed him? Dived at his fellow inmate with sheer passion, pressing their bodies together and drawing him open with want, with need; would it feel even  _nearly_  as good as that naked freedom, a matter of  _seconds_  before everything floated.

Silva’s words still echoed in his mind, the world reeling; it could be a game, just a manipulation, or possibly just a childish crush on Q’s part. The man hadn’t laid a finger on him, and Silva had… well, he couldn’t prove anything. There had to be a reason, though. There had to be something, and Q could grasp what but couldn’t make thoughts cohere long enough.

“Q?” Bond asked, in a surprisingly soft voice, as the boy left to leave. “Are you going to be alright?”

Q couldn’t hold his gaze. He tried, for a moment, before nodding sporadically and vanishing.

Days trickled, and time stretched itself to breaking point, and Bond was silent and read his book and Q was going mad, his skin, his  _blood_ , itched, it tormented him with half-remembered promises and threats and  _want_ , and Q finally snapped. Finally, finally snapped.

 “Hello querido,” Silva purred, watching Q’s ragged breathing. “Something we can help you with?”

\---

Q looked past Silva, to where Jim lay, sprawled on his bed with a contented smile. “You know why I’m here,” he stated, as Jim raised his hand in a light, friendly wave.

“You just looked so stressed, so sad…” Silva crooned, letting Q slip into the cell with tangible discomfort. “Just a little something to cheer you up.”

“Yeah. Well,” Q managed, offering a tight, sarcastic smile.

Silva smiled, exchanging a glance and a small laugh with Jim. “Are you going to give me some?” Q asked, as Silva settled himself on his bed.

“That depends,” Silva replied, as Jim stretched lazily, yawning. “What will you do for me?”

Q’s tongue darted out, wetting cracked lips. Under Bond’s protection he had been lulled into a sense of security, the idea that no one would truly harm him.

Silva’s eyes roamed over him hungrily, the implication relatively apparent, but Q tried for optimism. “What do you want?” he asked softly, as Jim drew out his stash and began confidently cutting it.

Silva’s smile widened; he beckoned for Q to come closer, until his legs were pressed against the edge of the bed. It was easy enough for Silva to tug him forward, toppling him into a curious embrace.

“Kiss me,” he instructed.

Q’s mouth went dry. He had one previous dalliance to his name, a boy in his year in college, but they had never gone past a messy handjob.

Silva’s hand slid over his lower back, warm and immediate, and Q breathed out with as much control as he could muster. “Is that all?”

“It’s a start,” Silva shrugged, closing the gap between them and kissing him with a surprising degree of gentleness. The man was a fairly decent kisser – better than his previous affair anyway. Honestly, Q’s only thoughts were on the man behind him, who was preparing his hit. One hand snaked up to Q’s hair tangling in the curls and tilting Q’s face.

After a short while Q could feel the press of the man beneath him, and he froze slightly, blood pumping loudly in his ears. “Oh,” Silva paused, sensing the shift. “Shh darling, no need to be coy…” He pulled back from Q’s lips, stroking a finger down his face gently. “Knees,” he breathed.

Q tried to scramble out of his grip, trapped by Silva’s arms. “No.  _No_ , I’m not doing that.”

“You do something for me, I do something for you. It’s very simple, little one.”

Q swallowed, eyes flicking once again to Jim. It would be quick, something transitory and easily blotted out by the impending hit, something to blur the boundaries.

Slowly, Q sank to his knees.

Silva reached down, pulling trousers and underwear free, sighing as he felt Q’s hot breath against him; a hand knotted in his hair, pulling him forward.

“Just suck it, like a lollipop,” Jim drawling in the background, as Q gathered together what little control he had left and let Silva guide him.

The door slammed open.

Stunned, Q froze as he saw Bond enter in a whirl, knocking him aside and dragging Silva up by the cheap fabric of his jumper. Q watched as Bond breathed raggedly, pinning the man against the wall.

“Oh!” Silva laughed, slicked hair coming loose as he was shaken. “What a charming surprise.”

“You do not touch him,” Bond growled, holding Silva a good half inch off the floor.

“Not bad, for a physical wreck,” Silva admitted, looking down at Bond. Bond snarled, slamming Silva’s head against the wall; the man didn’t cease chuckling, the entire debacle clearly worthy of amusement. “Come now, James, let me see him,” Silva said softly, carefully. “Let me see the murderer…”

For a moment, Q wondered if he would snap his neck. Bond’s teeth gritted as he stared.

The moment passed, Bond releasing his hands to let Silva crumple on the ground. “Come on, Q,” Bond told him.

Q looked from him to Jim, who still toyed with the syringe with a mocking smile, back to Bond. “ _Now_ ,” Bond reiterated.

“But I…” Q began; it was so  _close_ , god  _damn it_ , the only bloody thing that promised some form of sanity through the next however-many years of his life.

Bond took one look at him and grabbed him, dragging him out the cell and slamming the door behind them.

-

“Get off me!” Q screamed, as Bond dragged Q into his cell. Bond’s cellmate took one look and scarpered. “What the hell?!”

“You are  _never_  going back in there,” Bond told him, still grasping Q’s shirt harshly. “You are getting clean and never going back.”

“What if I want to?” Q retorted. “What if I prefer it to you and your fucking head games?” Bond rolled his eyes, seeming to be battling with something within him. “Why the hell should I listen to you?”

“Because I want to help you,” Bond told him, grasping at his own hair with his free han, looking genuinely torn. “Look Q, listen to me. Just listen.”

Q fell still, watching as Bond closed his eyes.

“My name is James Bond, and I am an MI6 operative. Honestly? I really  _do_  want to help you.”

\---

“Great,” Q managed. “You’re delusional. Wonderful.”

Bond rolled his eyes, as Q gave him the smile of a man on the edge of cracking. “I assure you Q, I am perfectly sane,” Bond assured him. “I could obtain some identification if you really want…”

The smile still had an edge to it, his voice a little high. “No, no, I’m sure the gents in the secret service don’t want to be bothered by something so trivial.”

“Listen to me, please. Just hear what I have to say,” Bond said, hands raised. Q considered him; even if the man was lying, it was a curious one to pick. “My previous assignment did not go as well as it could have done, I annoyed a few people in the wrong places, needed to go off grid for a while until the fuss died down – I’m here to monitor known threats, of which there are a lot; this is the government’s ground for everybody they consider lost causes, but can’t kill given that technically, the UK don’t enforce the death penalty.

“Oh,” Q said simply, not sure whether to be flattered, or actively scared that he would be dead if the government could get away with it.

It also explained the absolute chaos that reigned; these were all the people who had done the worst crimes in society. The ones that would never repent, had harmed people in truly repulsive ways.

Q couldn’t quite believe that hacking could have landed him in one of the worst places in the country.

Bond watched Q’s reaction with quiet, slightly repentant interest. “I’m also here to assess whether or not you may be an asset to the intelligence services.”

“ _What_?!”

Bond laughed slightly at the true, naked shock drawn over Q’s expression. “I was given your profile before you came in. I’m under orders to look out for you, establish whether you’re a hardened terrorist or a teenager who just got in over his head. Depending on the outcome, you’ll either be working for us, or potentially dead quite quickly, given how you’ve been treated thus far.”

Q couldn’t quite stop gaping. Both a chance of getting out, and the chance of a  _job_  in his dream location. “MI6 are interested in me?” he repeated slowly.

“You’re incredibly talented Q,” Bond said calmly. “Your work on the stock market was second to none.”

That settled whether the man was lying: Q hadn’t told a soul about that one. This was genuine. Q had been protected by an MI6, who was casually talking to him about working and avoiding being killed.

Q sat on the bunk, feeling as though his mind was being steadily taken apart and reassembled.

“I wasn’t meant to tell you,” Bond confided, sitting down next to Q, beginning to look mildly concerned. “But after I saw the point you were at I couldn’t see any other way to get through to you.”

Q nodded dumbly. “Will you get into trouble?”

“Probably, but they’ll forgive me. You’re worth that,” Bond smiled, before sobering. “I think you’ll be an asset, Q, but I can’t get you out until I’ve finished the other part of my brief; if I get you out now, it will be quickly obvious that there’s an MI6 mole. I don’t currently know how long that will take.”

For a moment, a horrible moment, Q could feel Silva’s breath and Jim’s hands, and the promise, the  _threat_ , of more than he could conscience. “You’ll get me out?”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “MI6 will want to interview you,” he pointed out. “However, if they decide not to employ you, they’ll transfer you out to a far safer prison. Believe me, even when angry, my superiors would never allow a kid like you to be in this environment long-term without protection.”

The threat, the  _chance_ , of escape. Whether or not MI6 employed him, he would be away from  _here_.

“If you accept the interview with MI6, there are still no guarantees,” Bond warned. “But, before you turn me down: I think you should know the gravity of your situation. Silva and Moriarty are both interested, and that has repercussions far beyond this institution.”

Q remained quiet, waiting. “Officially, the pair are in for manslaughter and drug trafficking.”

“Unofficially?” Q asked, relatively certain he did not want to know the answer.

“Moriarty’s is too long a list, but includes, murder, assault, torture, acts of terrorism, arms dealing and many creative others,” Bond informed him. “As to Silva, we have been unable to find evidence, but we are away of several cases of rape and murder of a number of young men. In addition, cyber terrorism and sex trafficking.”

Q felt slightly sick. “Get me out,” he mumbled. “Please. I just…  _why_. They won’t kill me, so why  _bother_  protecting me, what if I’m  _not_  what you think I am, and what if MI6 decide I’m not that, and I get landed straight back…”

“Hush,” Bond said steadily, moving a hand to rest over Q’s, gentle. “I will do everything in power to keep you away, once this is over. Apart from anything else, I want to get to know you better, out of here, out of all of this.”

Q blushed all the way to his toes, feeling Bond’s warm, reassuring presence, the one constant since he had arrived here. “Really?”

Bond nodded, a slight smile across his lips.

“I’d like that,” Q admitted, allowing Bond to close the gap and capture his lips in a soft kiss.

-

“Sherlock? Darling, daddy needs you,” Jim called, as Sherlock skulked into the cell. He was shaking slightly, visibly, but was still compus mentis enough to take a single look at Silva, and snigger at the head wound.

Silva raised an eyebrow, Jim moving to tug Sherlock closer, intention evident. “Wouldn’t laugh if I were you…”

Jim smiled, expression pouting and intimate. “I need to know everything you know, you’ve  _deduced_ , about our friend Mr Bond,” he breathed as Sherlock leaned in, propping himself up on Jim’s shorter body. Sherlock managed a sloppy shrug as Jim shook his head. “Do better,” he snapped, abruptly  _livid_. “Do better, or we’ll see you shaking your way through withdrawal…”

Sherlock tensed, suddenly frighteningly alert. “No,” he stated blankly.

“Don’t test me,” Jim hissed, before breaking out a smile once again. “Now, Mr Bond…”

\---

 

It took a few long days for MI6 to appear, simply to deal with the formality of interviews; Q received a message telling him to dress smartly and prepare, ostensibly for a court hearing.

Q had spent most of the time, prior to said interviews, glued to Bond’s side in a relatively literal sense. The only time they parted was when Q was escorted back to his cell in the evenings; he then remained quiet, calm, and waited patiently for the moment.

Holmes was almost completely silent, though this was not unusual; he occasionally paused to snigger slightly as Q entered, post coital, but otherwise didn’t speak to his cellmate.

Q woke at the allotted time, dressed as commanded, more than ready. As he walked out, he glanced towards Bond’s cell, hoping to see a last glimpse of the man; Bond didn’t seem to be awake, and thus Q walked out alone.

The journey passed in a blur of brief sunlight and an expensive smelling car, windows blacked out; there came a point where Q was entirely lost as to location, and certainly as to time of day. A sandwich was bowled in his direction at one stage, leaving Q to assume it was mid-day, but that was mostly supposition.

Q grimaced as a hessian sack was placed over his head, the car stopping; hands still bound in front of him, he was led into the building, strip-searched, and eventually entirely alone in a very sparsely furnished room: two chairs, and a table.

Q sat, waiting. The door behind him opened, and a man walked in, heels clicking on the floor; he sat down opposite, a study in neutrality, and began asking questions. It was very simple: name, age, place of both. All things they clearly would already know, so Q answered them without undue worry.

Q was brought a computer, and  _finally_ , things got interesting.

After disassembling and reassembling it to meet his personally preferred specifications – they gave him tools, mostly to humour him – and then proceeded to retract every hint of contempt as Q easily, confidently, illustrated just how good he was,  _could be_.

A cursory illustrations of the skeletons of his current working programs, and the current projected testing trajectory for a few side projects; mostly conceptual, with some concrete beginnings that he could begin finalising.

Given his history, Q was naturally asked to take a look at MI6’s security systems; it was more of a challenge than before – they had mercifully decided to actually improve some of the more laughable aspects since his last hacking attempt – but he was still able to deconstruct them with relative ease.

After suitably impressing and indeed terrifying the tech team in equal measure, Q was handed over to psych. It was a merry time, discussing why he no longer used his name  _my sign on leaves me anonymous_ , what his parents were like  _not around_ , whether he would be an asset  _obviously_ , whether he had any true training  _none but I have a fair amount of experience_ , how have you responded to prison _what do you think?_

-

Q headed back into the main forecourt, glancing around for Bond, and finding him conspicuously absent. “Where’s James?” Q asked the guard next to him; the woman raised an eyebrow, and didn’t answer him. “ _Where is he_?”

“Medical,” she told him wearily, “there was something of an issue.”

"What sort of an issue? Is he alright?" Q asked quickly, as the first set of doors were unlocked, and nothing was said, Q left to glance around the forecourt with unease crawling up his spine.

Silva leant against his cell door, a teasing smile painted over his face. “Had a nice day out?” he asked lightly.

Q looked him up and down, didn’t say a word; he moved straight to his cell, with a somewhat disjointed idea that he could potentially hide, given that remaining out in the open would never be helpful.

Not to mention that Bond had taught him how to extract the blades from the razors they could sometimes access, attaching them to a toothbrush, made into something more dangerous, makeshift weapons,  _anything_  that he could get to work.

Sherlock didn’t smile as he looked at Q, devoid of expression, barring something Q couldn’t recognise, or indeed entirely understand.

The doorway darkened, and Q’s eyes snapped up; Sherlock’s did too, for entirely different reasons. “You owe me,” Sherlock said quickly, urgently, and only now did Q notice the shaking, the pale sweaty sheen that covered him. “ _Please_.”

Jim grinned, sauntering to Sherlock’s side, wrenching his head forward and kissing him intensely; Sherlock allowed it, hands scrabbling down Jim’s front in an unvoiced plea for his  _god damn_  hit.

Q watched with quiet horror, and knew. Sherlock had betrayed him. Q couldn’t actually bring himself to feel much more than simple pity.

Silva shut the door, and Q rolled his spine, keeping his fingers wrapped around the only escape route he had as the man sauntered towards him.

\---

 

"Welcome back," Silva smiled, as Jim pressed Sherlock against the wall; Sherlock let it happen, wire-thin body easily manipulated, Q watching with white knuckles on his almost-knife.

Silva smiled slightly, attention vacillating to Sherlock and Jim with mild interest, before returning predictably to Q; he swallowed slightly, very still. “What have you done to James?” he asked, voice cold, borrowed tension.

“Nothing too horrible,” Silva told him, with a thin smile.

Jim piped up, busy occupying himself with Sherlock but – apparently – still aware of the imminent chaos on the opposite side of the room. “Somebody decided to intervene,” he whined, Sherlock pliant in his usual, bored manner as Jim tried – with increasing creativity – to provoke a response.

Silva smiled generously. “Nevertheless: he will not be around for a bit, if he comes back in at all,” he explained, before his expression hardened a little. “We do not like little rats here, Q, even ones working for the Queen herself. It was not even challenging, nobody likes rats, hmm?”

Q felt his blood freeze, gluing him to the spot.

Sherlock had told them everything, they knew  _everything_. Knew that Q was on the cusp of escape, that the mission had been aborted, that Q could be out of their grasp in the space of minutes – and potentially, fall straight into the hands of a thousand allies.

“So, dear boy, it is time to take a side,” Silva told him calmly; on the other side of the room, Sherlock out a low grunt, Q able to see movements in his peripheral vision and desperately trying not to look, grip so tight the skin over his knuckles was straining. “Stay with me, I can protect you, beyond all this. Give you toys to play with and more than MI6 could dream of. I can give you everything.”

There was, of course, an element of true showmanship, underpinned quite neatly by whatever the hell Moriarty was doing stage-left, and ice trickled along Q’s spine along with every remembrance of Bond he still possessed.

"And if not?" Q swallowed, gathering every last atom of his courage as Silva looked down at him.

Sherlock let out a lower noise, Silva’s smile far wider. “Then you leave me very little choice.”

Q took his chance.

He dived forward, striking out abruptly, aiming for Silva’s throat; the man moved like a snake, Q managing to catch his jaw, slicing a line from his ear and sharply downwards.

Silva staggered back, clutching at his bloodied face, while Q stood strong, holding the instrument out in front of him, Silva’s blood dripping from it.

To Q’s annoyance, to his  _anger_ , Silva did nothing more than laugh. “ _Oh_ , does our little mouse  _bite_?” he laughed, taking another step forward.

Q lashed out again, almost managing to hit a forearm before Silva grappled the weapon upwards, a hand gathered in Q’s jumper, dragging Q up until their faces were inches from each other.

Their grips remained solid, Silva’s hand fastened over Q’s wrist, dictating the motion as it came perilously close to Q’s face. “Shall we match?” Silva breathed.

Q paled, but stilled in his hand. Silva smirked, grip loosening as he leaned in closer, trying for a kiss; Q did whatever he could, knee coming up and into Silva’s groin, an almost unconscious act of sheer desperation.

Sherlock was quiet, as was Jim – perversely enough – and the blade sliced over Q’s collarbone and  _hurt_ , white-hot, and he could feel blood begin to slide over him, and Jim pounced and Q  _screamed_ , forcing the door open and all but toppling out, attracting every eye in the building as he yelled and fought, blood smearing the tiles and Silva cursing, Sherlock also grappling with presumably Moriarty, and all  _hell_  seemed to break loose, and -

\---

 

Q had absolutely no idea what had happened, in the end.

He opened his eyes to find that the ceiling was blurred and off-white, almost beige, peeling in the corners, and that his breathing hurt and he had bandages across his torso and his mouth felt very funny and he was definitely not dead in the slightest, which was nice.

Somewhere, Bond was waiting for him. Q mumbled nonsensical sentences into the dark, hoping Bond could hear him for some inexplicable reason, praying he was safe and well enough, praying in a way that couldn’t avoid being selfish (he didn’t want to be, he really didn’t) but just begged that he would be out. That this was  _it_. He could go into any other unit in the goddamn world, but not here, not any more, not unable to sleep in case one of them came back for him, not waiting and praying for Bond to be even alive and having no idea what was happening,  _nothing_  made sense.

The morning broke a window somewhere behind him, and Q noticed a man waiting outside his door, watching him. Q watched straight back, blinking, uncertain of whether he was hallucinating or  _what_  was going on. The man was in a three-piece suit, umbrella clasped in one hand while the other remained around a briefcase, expression the embodiment of neutrality.

He disappeared, after a while.

Shortly after  _that_ , Q was helped into a wheelchair – while his legs were intact, his balance was shot to hell – and wheeled down the corridor.

Noticing, in the process, that it did  _not_  look like the prison’s medical unit.

The wheelchair diverted into a new room, and Q was faced with Bond, and the rather imposing man in the three-piece suit. The latter simply raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you can cover the necessary explanations, double-oh seven,” the man told him drily, glancing Q up and down. “As to Sherlock Holmes, he is no longer of concern to you. In the light of recent events, he has now been placed in a unit that can adequately cater to his needs.”

“Rehab?” Q asked quietly.

The man stared at him, with an intensity that – oddly – seemed almost twin to Sherlock. “Indeed,” he said quietly. “Afternoon.”

With that, he vanished.

Bond looked after him, shook his head slightly. “Sherlock’s his brother,” Bond explained quietly, making Q’s eyes widen almost comically. “I think somebody went over his head in getting Sherlock in that unit, Mycroft has upset a lot of people over the years. I suppose they can’t excuse it any longer.”

Q just shook his head, before looking over Bond, smiling despite himself. “You’re alive,” he noted, with quiet, childish delight. “You’re alright, yes?”

Bond looked like he had been beaten senseless – which was pretty much accurate – but, as he readily confirmed, he was very much alive. Q didn’t even need to press for an explanation:

“Somebody talked,” Bond explained, with a dangerous set to his jaw. “Blew my cover. Silva and Moriarty tried to kill me with an overdose – I do have friends here, I was warned in time. I fought back; if they’d tried to hit me up, it would have been very obvious that it was murder, so I kept fighting back until I wound up here. MI6 have now pulled the mission, obviously.”

Q’s eyebrows contracted slightly. “It was Sherlock,” he said aloud. “He worked it out.”

“I know,” Bond agreed, trying to reach for a glass of water. Q stopped him, grasping the plastic cup – straw pointed jauntily out of the top – and holding it to Bond’s lips. “They brought him in here too.”

“Who?” Q asked, placing the cup back.

Bond smiled at him, very slightly. “Sherlock. He protected you, believe it or not. Tried to get Silva off you before it went too far, and the pair of them laid into him. He’s fine, he’ll be fine, but that’s why Mycroft wants an explanation.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t protect just  _anybody_ ,” Bond explained, a note of teasing in his tone. “I’d love to know what you did.”

Q blinked. “I didn’t. I have no idea.”

Bond shrugged, winced, and sighed – that aspect of the conversation was closed, at least for a moment. “The injuries Silva sustained are being put as self-defence,” Bond explained through a yawn. “You’re a free man, Q.”

For a moment, the words didn’t even register.

“Sorry,” Q managed, almost tripping over himself in his  _desperate_  haste. “I’m  _what_?!”

Bond glanced up at him with apparent confusion. “You’re…  _oh_. Nobody’s told you. I’m so sorry, Q, I thought you knew…”

Hope was pretty much throttling Q by now, lips parted, drawing in quick breaths with his head all but spinning.

“… MI6 hired you. Q, you’re out. You never have to go back. MI6 will find you a flat, or if you like…”

“… could I stay with you?” Q managed, voice a rather high squeak. “I mean, if you don’t, I…”

Bond laughed, fingers closing around Q’s. “It would be my pleasure,” he told Q softly, a quiet intimacy held in the calm spaces of his voice. “Welcome to MI6, Q.”


	132. The Silent!Alec Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you write a healing fic? Bond rescues Alec after he’s been captured and imprisoned for two months. Instead of physical torture - he’s been in social isolation, and hasn’t interacted with anyone at all since he was first taken. Bond brings him back to his flat to keep an eye on him, and he and Q help him get himself back together. Bond/Q or Bond/Q/Alec please! – falcon-fox-and-coyote

The two-way glass was almost pointless, Bond mused; all agents knew what it was. Alec sat in the MI6 holding unit, he had spent several months in the company of a rather nasty terrorist cell. They had done nothing to him, and that was the problem.

Complete isolation. No human contact, physical, vocal, anything.

He had completely panicked at the concept of any physical contact, unsurprisingly. He had subsequently refused to look at anybody, quite honestly. Speech was completely gone.

"I’m going to take him back to our flat," Bond mused, very softly, as though Alec would be able to hear. "Do you mind?"

Q looked between them with utter, quiet sadness. “Of course.”

Full surveillance was set up, Q rigging most of it himself in preparation. When they had told Alec he had barely reacted, only gazed at the opposite wall.

"There is nothing physically wrong?" Bond confirmed as Alec was sedated. It would be impossible to transport him in his present condition.

Q looked over the medical reports, shaking his head slightly. Their flat was comfortable, everything accessible. Alec had made not a single move to create his own meals, shower, do absolutely anything; it had all been automated in captivity, food appearing in a dumbwaiter and shower automatically turning on intermittently.

Bond and Q had a hell of a job. Then again, Bond was banned from active duty after a deep-cover mission that had lasted nearly three solid months - he was due a lot of leave now, and Q had been overworking for years now.

It was a thankless task, both men just glad that Alec could still use the toilet. His physical strength had deteriorated, and he was half the man he once was; even Q could manoeuvre him. They were now at least able to touch him without him lashing out.

Q just sat on the sofa, curled on Bond’s chest, almost dozing as Bond avidly watched the Great British Bakeoff and Alec stared blankly.

Only, his eyes continued to dart to Q and Bond, once in a while, almost in curiosity. He seemed somehow fascinated by the way they interacted; the easy exchange of dialogue, the ability to touch and feel and be perfectly, utterly intimate without problem. Interaction. Connection.

Each time they tried to engage him in anything the veil would descend, his eyes going blank and looking away. They soon learned that the best way was to simply let him watch as they went about their daily business. It was quite pleasant, to actually  _see_ one another for longer than a few stolen afternoons. Both were fiercely independent, and sometimes would go for days on end without so much as uttering a word to each other; but they would always sit together at the end of the day, curled together on the sofa. It was these days that Alec watched most avidly

It was only after fortnight or so that they finally managed to find a small response. “Tea?” Q asked, yawning slightly as he stood, cracking his back out slightly. “I can do a pot. Alec, you want some?”

Alec didn’t respond, and Q hadn’t expected him to. “James?”

"God yes," he said easily, watching his lover turn away, back to the kitchen.

Q almost didn’t hear it.

"I hate tea."

\---

 

Q made coffee.

Alec smiled.

-

It was only small things. The flicker of response over something small, the quiet curiosity mutating into evident attempts to somehow mimic; he could be caught, once in a while, half-practising their motions, documenting them like something half-remembered from a lifetime he once had.

Alec remembered, of course. He remembered that it used to feel alright. That he  _used_ to be able to speak and express, form words, form friendships and relationships.

That once, he was an agent who took on the world, and could laugh in its face – and now was rendered mute, trapped within the limited sphere of his own mind.

Bond and Q began, slowly, to introduce contact. Just small things; inviting Alec to pour milk in his coffee, brushing a hand, small suggestions that could be inflated over time to something more tangible. It was beginning to work. Q would ask what Alec wanted to eat; sometimes he would answer, sometimes he wouldn’t. He certainly began expressing opinions, which made a pleasant change.

Apparently, Alec really,  _really_  liked pizza.

Q and Bond were not exactly going to judge; they shipped in infinite quantities of pizza, and waited to see whether anything would impact at any stage.

It took time. It took time for Alec to stand, to begin to function as an independent being. To ask questions. “What happened?” he asked, after a while. “In terms of the mission.”

A coherent sentence, and a fair one. Bond and Q had been advised not to speak too much of the mission in case it triggered, but really, it seemed unavoidable. Bond thus explained, and Alec nodded, looking visibly alive for the first time in a while, eyes alight, sparking from idea to idea as Bond talked him through the events after his disappearance.

Quietly, hesitantly, Alec began to communicate his perspective, find words to capture the curious half-suspension of communication; it was impossible to express, to  _feel_ , without anything capture it and he was  _trying_ , but aspects paused him mid-sentence as he searched fruitlessly for the ability to respond. Social cues, habits, customs. The concern that he would breach acceptable modes of communication.

Bond just snorted, and noted that if he did, it was hardly the first time.

Alec cuffed him around the back of the head; Bond retaliated, naturally, and Q watched with mild confusion as they began to grapple in the middle of their living room floor, and smirked as Alec resumed some semblance of somebody he once was and – apparently – could still be.

\---

Q returned to the living room with a large pot of tea, and two mugs of coffee. “Please tell me you’re not about to drink a full teapot of tea?” Alec asked, with a touch of wry humour.

“Whether I am, or indeed not, it is absolutely none of your concern,” Q said, with teasing primness, pouring himself an ungodly amount of tea into a massive mug Bond had brought from New York a few months previously. “Drink your tar.”

Bond snorted slightly, pulling Q’s slim body in, tender and intimate. Alec – meanwhile – put his feet up in the coffee table; Q knocked them off again with a light kick, very nearly upsetting the coffee and making Alec curse under his breath. “I like that table,” Q said, by way of an explanation, holding his breath slightly.

Alec was still not perfect. Every once in a while, he still had issues with physical contact, with the general progression of human behaviours and actions; something like that, pushing him away, could be construed as an indication of improper behaviour, which plagued Alec until he lost most rationality.

As it was, he smirked, and reached for the coffee before it went everywhere.

Bond and Q relaxed in tandem.

Alec smiled slightly. “You know, I’m really not going to relapse because you don’t want me ruining your furniture,” he commented drily; Bond rolled his eyes, and Q all but beamed. It was nice to have Alec back –  _their_  Alec – rather than the semi-shadow that had existed for a while.

The fact that Alec had never moved out remained unexamined. There were probably reasons – Alec shouldn’t live on his own under the circumstances, it could be detrimental to recovery, monitoring would be safer – but honestly, it had nothing to do with the above.

It had a  _lot_  to do with the simple fact that Bond and Q didn’t especially want him to go. Alec was a good friend, brilliant company, and they had come to care about him a great deal through all that had happened; there was a protective aspect, an undeniable need to keep the man close and keep him from falling apart.


	133. The Breeding Farm Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could I have an omega/alpha 00q. Q is an omega on a breeding farm, Bond is an alpha that pays to rent him for an hour, you can decide whether Q enjoys it, is in heat, or hates Bond and tries to run away? – madwriterscorner:

Bond walked along the row of cages, glancing into each at the sorry creatures huddled there. He normally avoided the farms, preferring instead to go for a higher class of prostitute, but needs must; he was inches from a full rut, and this place was close.

Breeding farms were, as they implied, places were omegas were bred for sex with Alphas who needed a quick release. They were normally dull and slightly inbred, but they were kept almost constantly in heat via various hormones, and birth control as standard. All could be knotted with, but actual bonding was avoided, and broken by the keepers if it happened accidently. Good for a quick fuck, overall.

Cages passed, young men and women, gazing up at him though needy eyes. Their scent was driving him insane; naturally the point, Alphas in full rut weren’t even allowed to see the stock in person. They would be given a catalogue to avoid them ripping the place to shreds.

Bond’s nostrils flared; there was something there, something new. It was enticing, beautifully appealing.

His nose led him to the end of the row; he looked in, raising an eyebrow. The boy was beautiful, dark haired, pale – as they all were – and in his late teens. Green eyes stared at Bond through the darkness, blinking slowly as they observed him.

That was it: the omega was actually observing  _him_. Something was alive there, behind those eyes.

“This one,” Bond nodded, as the keeper looked over his choice.  
“Certainly sir, he is in heat at the moment, and a young lad like that – they will be a premium…” the keeper explained, smile stretching across his face in a sickly way.

“I can pay it,” Bond grunted, as the keeper nodded delightedly.

The cage was opened, and the omega lead out, wrists bound and head down. Trained then, but not broken. Bond could feel his arousal building as he watched. Licking dry lips, he took the offered lead and stepped towards the rooms.

The sex was surprisingly good, Bond had to admit. A heated omega was never a bad thing, but most of them could be snivelling, whiny creatures. The boy was ‘Q’, apparently; Bond tried to ignore the coincidence, but knew he wouldn’t be able to look Boothroyd in the eyes for weeks.

Q was a mystery, conscious enough to respond, ride him, even give him a half decent blow job. He was slick and tight and his body was truly beautiful. Bond had only paid for an hour and with five minutes to go, he allowed himself to lie back, the omega on his chest.

Q sat up suddenly, looking him over. “MI6?” he asked, voice sharper than Bond had previously heard it. Honestly, he was completely taken aback. “No answer? Good, I’ll take it as a yes.”

“What?” Bond began, his reactions slightly dimmed from so recent an orgasm. There was a natural Alpha tendency to protect omegas post- sex, which was the main reason he hadn’t upped and left just yet.

Q stared at him, with merciless intensity. “Listen closely: I am not on any kind of contraceptive medication,” Q told him as Bond’s eyes widened. “Unless I am very much mistaken, you have just impregnated me, not even the heathens that inhabit this place would force an abortion on an omega. Therefore, the child will be born. It will be yours, I will not deny it.”

“Why?” Bond asked, sitting up through the speech. Q seemed calm, impossibly so. “And why should I care?”

 “They will not allow me to keep it, that will be your responsibility,” Q stated. “Unless you get me out.”

 Bond looked at the boy, terrified, determined and soon to be the father of his child. It was quite a sight, actually. “And if I don’t?” he asked quietly. “They will land the child on me? Why not simply kill you? Kill it?”

Q pulled on the underwear that served for clothing, looked up at Bond with mild impatience. “As disgusting as this place is,” Q began, “there are some lines they won’t cross, ironically. A religious issue I believe. If an omega is able to be impregnated they simply strip them of the child and land it on the responsible Alpha – if it is known – or dump them in a children’s home.”

 “You really aren’t leaving me an option, are you?” Bond asked, running a hand through his hair. “And if I get you out?”

 “I will take the child, you will never hear from us again,” Q assured him, waiting at the door to be collected.

Bond’s eyes followed him, seeing the bones through skin that saw sunlight for an hour a day maximum. “What’s your name?” he asked, as footsteps approached.

 “Just Q, it’s all I have ever known,” Q reiterated, with conviction. “And you?”

 “Bond,” he told him. “James Bond.” 

\---

 

The process of extracting an omega from a breeding farm was incredibly difficult. Such places weren’t strictly legal, and the conditions were beyond any unofficial guidelines.

Bond sat, eyeing up the required paperwork and moaning quietly to himself, irritated beyond belief and rather resentful of the situation as a whole: if he couldn’t get the boy out, he would end up with a child. A bloody  _child_ , and he had absolutely no goddamned interest.

A dark portion of his mind drifted towards the possibility of organising an accident. Some way of dispatching the irritating omega who had made his life infinitely more complex.

Finally, he conceded defeat, and called Eve.

She arrived, listened to his story with absolutely no sympathy, verbally decimated him, and looked over the paperwork.

Within minutes, both were generally whining about the sheer  _difficulty_  of the task at hand.

"You could break him out?" Eve suggested, after an exceptionally long while; Bond was inches away from breaking something, and Eve herself was near enough devoid of sanity. “Call it a raid, free the lot?”

"And where would they go?" Bond asked wearily.

Eve shot him a small smile. “Good point,” she replied, leaning back in her chair.

A few further moments of silence. “…You could always marry him,” she suggested lightly.

"…What?" Bond asked, expression mutating, looking at her as though she had suggested that the Earth was a pyramid. " _Marry_  him?”

Eve continued musing, determinedly not looking at Bond. “Or just bond,” she continued. “They’d have to give him over, under those kinds of circumstances.”

Bond was gaping slightly. “But I don’t know if I want…” he began, thinking of the determined, ethereal little being he had spent a single evening with. “I’ve only just met the boy. He’s also far too young for me.”

“I thought he’d promised to leave you alone if you got him out, no one needs to know,” Eve pointed out. “It could work.

Bond was visibly reeling. “But it would tie him to me – what if he wants to bond with someone else?” he asked fairly. “Not to mention I wouldn’t be able to protect him, or the child…”

"He seems perfectly capable of looking after himself," Eve pointed out with a vague smirk, earning a raised eyebrow. "Don’t give me that look. He’s got us doing what he wants, after all. Creative, intelligent, from what you have described pretty attractive - you could do worse.”

A final grasp at straws. “What if he doesn’t want to?” he asked, with worrying truth.

Eve gave a truly sad, very sorry look. “I’m afraid neither of you seem to have that much of an option.”

\---

 


	134. The Bodyguard Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love all your fills esp the prison fic + Q as sexual pet! I’d love to read a fic where Q is the youngest Holmes and after Sherlock goes off the rails Mycroft assigns Bond + Alec as his bodyguards. Prefer not underage. Q acts like a total brat as he’s had such a fucked up life but Bond really cares for him + is all protective/possessive + they end up together. – anon

The boy was mutinous and angular and clearly barely holding himself together around the edges, and honestly, it was difficult to blame him.

Seventeen years old. His brother, at twenty-two, had become heavily addicted to a number of drugs, had fallen in with a collection of extremely bad people, and had been found prostituting himself in a distant area of London with his bloodstream singing. He was a complete behavioural nightmare, utterly dependent on various substances just to get him through the day, and altogether had quite distinctly fallen apart.

Sherlock Holmes had thus been taken quietly away into rehab, where nobody would know the shame he had placed on the Holmes family.

Mycroft Holmes, meanwhile – a rising star in the background of government, known by many to have access to  _everything_ , and also Sherlock’s senior by a full seven years – was understandably concerned about their youngest sibling.

The forgotten sibling.

Q, as he insisted everybody call him, was twelve years younger than Mycroft. His eldest brother had moved out when Q was still in single digits, and Q barely knew the man. Sherlock, meanwhile, he had watched slowly descend into a chaos of his own making, and was completely powerless to stop him. Nobody listened. Q was left alone, to rot, nobody thinking for a moment that he would ever go off the rails himself.

It had to be said, Q  _wanted_  to. Bond watched him with tangible sadness, aware that Q had completely lost himself in the frantic struggle to make his eldest sibling respect him, his middle sibling not kill himself, his parents to ever acknowledge his mere existence.

“Fuck off,” he snapped at his two new ‘bodyguards’; he was scarily intelligent, knew full well that they were there simply because Mycroft was busy with Sherlock, and didn’t want to risk another Holmes disaster.

Mycroft was always busy with Sherlock. It was just how everything seemed to work. How it had always worked.

Bond felt more than pity for the boy. He felt true, honest care. Not simply because he was damaged, or hurt, but because he was still there. Unlike his sibling – who had far less to escape – Q had kept himself whole, showed a type of utterly unflinching strength that Bond could only look at with speechless wonder.

Alec was clearly getting very bored with the boy’s acting-out; Bond laughingly told him to get some air, while talking to the boy himself.

Q looked at him like he was an enemy, initially.

As time passed, the hostility died back a little.

To be replaced by something that maybe – possibly – could one day be construed as friendliness.

\---

“I need to visit Sherlock,” Q drawled, kicked back against his armchair, tea held defensively against his body and all but glaring at Alec. Bond was now being spared the general looks of loathing. Alec was not quite so fortunate.

Thus, Alec wanted to  _kill him_ , and Bond just smirked and rather enjoyed the company of the somewhat petulant teenager.

The thing was, he was  _terrifyingly_  clever.

Bond was finding, to his immense interest, that he was actively looking forward to days spent with him. He made Bond laugh, acerbity and occasional hostile notwithstanding, and they could both jibe at each other and sometimes, just sometimes, Bond could see the green lighten with a smile that tried and failed to not exist, and he was beautiful.

“Bond…”

“Call me James,” Bond interrupted, as he had done  _every single_  time Q called him Bond. Q refused to listen, and Bond had the distinct impression he was doing it on purpose, just to rile him. Or maybe just as a running joke.

Q’s half-smile appeared for a fragment of a second. “How long are you here?” he asked, curious, not quite judgemental or angry. It was almost an indication of discomfort; not necessarily bad, but certainly an acknowledgement that he was discomfited by the thought of losing Bond.

That thought was, to Bond, breathtaking.

The fact of it remained that Q wanted him there.

Q turned eighteen about four months after Bond and Alec were placed on bodyguard duty. Alec had, by then, essentially been dropped; it was very evident that Bond on his own was more than enough to keep the teen away from most problematic influences.

Mycroft was at work. Sherlock was still in rehab.

Bond took the now-adult out to dinner. They had definitely become friends; Q was more than happy to discuss quirks of his expanding works in the world of computers, and Bond told him stories of countries and deserts and oceans, and Q’s eyes occasionally expressed that he was truly sorry that Bond was being taken away for his sake.

He never said it aloud, but then, he didn’t need to. Nor did Bond ever need to say that, quite frankly, he didn’t mind as much as he had thought he would.

It was quite telling enough that he stayed, and Q never asked him to leave.


	135. The Confidante Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MI6 00s are expected to choose from a group of candidates to be their confidant. Beyond being expert physicians they keep everything a 00 says to them in confidence, telling not even M, of their thoughts and emotions. They’re meant to provide the stability that a 00 normally never has. Physical intimacy, while encouraged, isn’t required. Out of many more seasoned candidates, veteran 007 chooses Q to be his confidant after his long time old one has died. – runemarks

Q glanced up, with unapologetic intrigue. “Bond,” he said lightly. “Well, this is… not entirely unexpected, but…”

Bond smiled sideways, the vaguely flirtatious one he somehow always managed to shoot at passers-by. “Vesper died,” he said simply, frankly. Q’s expression fell a little, and he nodded; he had liked Vesper, once. Not to mention that she and Bond had been together – originally as confidante/client, later as far more – for most of Bond’s career. “I require a new confidante.”

It was difficult; Bond was a highly experienced agent, with a lot of history to potentially catch up on. Not to mention that Q was half his age, and uncomfortably aware of that fact. “Am I to assume you’re asking me?” he suggested, a little shyly.

An abrupt, blazing smile. “If you would be so kind,” he said smoothly; Q returned with a smile of his own. “Terms?”

“None,” Q shrugged. “I… I’m aware you were very close to Vesper, and I understand if you are reticent about intimacy. You dictate. I’m fine, whatever you choose.”

Bond’s eyebrows contracted, in something like confusion. “Why?” he asked quietly. “You would clearly prefer physical contact, but you’re a confidante. Why not find a real relationship?”

Q’s expression was curiously, heartbreakingly sad. “Is there anything more real, than a relationship wherein there is full honesty, full disclosure?” he asked rhetorically.

“You’re very young to be so cynical.”

“And you’re very old to be passing judgement,” Q returned, and their smiles were mirror. “I don’t know how you’ve had it work before, but… “

“I tend to find honesty works better when reciprocated,” Bond told him simply; Q paused a moment, head twisting sharply, at a slight angle. It was a transparent question. “I’ll be telling you the truth. Every truth I have. Vesper and I failed to work, at the end, because she lied to me. I want your honesty too.”

Q breathed out slowly, carefully. “Bond, I…”

“James,” Bond corrected mildly. “Trust me. You’re asking me to do so for you.”

It was unconventional; confidantes were expected to merely listen, not return ideas, never be so active so as not to deflect. It was contradicting every training session Q had ever been subjected to.

And yet. It was James Bond, and it made sense that he would never be conventional. Not to mention that Vesper had been an unequivocal nightmare, in the end.

Ultimately, Q needed to be what Bond needed. That was what mattered.

“Okay,” Q said lightly. “Sounds good. So, James. Tell me everything.”

Bond smiled, sat down in the chair opposite, and – for the first time in weeks, since before Vesper had died – he began to speak.

\---

Q smiled very slightly, and settled back in his chair, looking Bond up and down.

They were several weeks into their strange little arrangement; despite every warning that had ever been given to him, Q was fast reaching a state of a truly reciprocal relationship with James Bond. Of all people.

He had secrets. He had more than secrets, actually; he had the kind of past, the kind of knowledge and information and potential, to bring down worlds with a snap of his fingers. He simply had to be angry enough to do so.

Q, meanwhile, had secrets of his own. The pains that only some could know, some could understand, and in no sense unique to him.

It didn’t stop them hurting, however. That was the fact that kept them together, ultimately. Because they both hurt, for very different reasons, but appreciated that there was no such thing as a more important, or more extreme, pain. It’s all pain. It all hurts.

They listened and exchanged and – for a while – learnt. Little things, like where not to tread, where not to push, where to probe and prod and not permit evasion. Q, as expected, had to throw all caution to the wind and accept that this was never, ever going to go as he had been taught to expect as a confidante.

Yet, it was everything he had ever wanted. To be closer than anybody could imagine, then anybody could believe. To have somebody to fall into the arms of, to never be forced to keep quiet; the entire  _point_  was to tell somebody  _everything_. To never need to keep a single secret again, to never have to lie.

Q had been prepared to keep his own counsel, as it were, but look after somebody else. It seemed like something perfect. To make sure nobody ever felt like he did, holding onto things far greater than he could hope to deal with or even understand.

Somehow, through seemingly  _luck_ , he had found the one person in the world who actually wanted to talk about  _him_ , too. In fact, one who stated quite clearly that if Q did not talk about himself, he would end their relationship immediately.

The primary order of a confidante: be what their client needs.

Second:  _do not_  become emotionally involved.

Bond kissed him, Q waved goodbye to the second precept of being a confidante, and realised he was utterly in love in James Bond.

The only small – but very, very notable – consolation:

James Bond was utterly in love with him, too.


	136. The Band Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever done a band!AU for Bond/Q? I’ve read some good ones in other fandoms but I can’t ever remember reading one for Skyfall - M could be manager, Bond/Alec/Eve as the band that Q joins or he’s the other artist on the tour. Pretty pretty please – anon

Bond stood, hands in his pockets, watching the get-in for the gig; their set was being preceded by a new kid, an up-and-comer who M seemed quietly very enthusiastic about

‘Q’, his name was. Bond had never seen anything of him, didn’t really know what to expect. He watched the get-in team with mild interest, as he often did; none of their group –  _double-oh_  – really bothered with the get-in, they were at such a level that they didn’t really need to worry about it themselves.

On the stage, a young man was also working; presumably the get-in had required a spare pair of hands, and they’d grabbed the first kid they came across. He seemed very much in control, occasionally speaking to other guys, organically taking a sort of control of the situation.

He was also shockingly, unexpectedly beautiful.

Bond tilted his head to one side, looking over him, taking him in as best he could.

After a while of just watching, of smiling in the almost-humourless way he could usually manage, he sauntered over to the lovely young man. “Hello,” he said, in a relatively low voice, reserved for seductions.

The boy looked up, looked down again at whatever he was doing with the tech equipment. “Hey,” he said, quite abruptly.

Nobody usually just shut Bond off like that; he was accustomed to women and men alike falling at his feet, or at the very  _least_ , doing a double-take. “I’m James. James Bond,” he said coolly.

“Q,” the boy replied, without looking up, brow furrowing slightly.

Bond was honestly staggered. “As in, Q who is our supporting act?”

Q nodded vaguely. “I’m supposed to be meeting you all soon, but I got a little caught-up, some of your team need shooting,” he managed, and twisted away to yell something near-enough incomprehensible at somebody across the room. “Morons,” he muttered, turning back. “I’m now doing most of it myself.”

“Clearly,” Bond parried, trying not to sound impressed and failing monumentally. “Well. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Q nodded to himself. “Hang on,” he muttered. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Abruptly, Q was  _yelling_  at people, with all the force at his disposal; Bond watched, literally unable to find a single word to say, trying to reconstruct himself in the meanwhile.

Eve was going to  _adore_  him.

\---

Eve was grinning with tangible joy. “He’s the  _sweetest thing_ ,” she enthused, practically bouncing where she stood. “I just want to ruffle his hair for  _days_.”

Bond had never seen Eve so excited. She just didn’t do that sort of thing. She had a mothering tendency, but rarely to the extent where she looked like she was going to pass out just because of the sheer cuteness of another human being.

Alec was a little more dispassionate, but then, Alec always was. He took everything a little too seriously, these days; he spent a decent proportion of his time chain-smoking in the corner in an attempt to look cool, which everybody mocked him for ceaselessly.

At the rehearsal, it even transpired that he was  _brilliant_ ; a strange electro-type of style, brimming with sounds and synthesis, and a piano which was frankly gorgeous. A genuine piano, not a keyboard, but highlighted with a million types of tracks and a voice that melted.

Bond had never been so attracted in his life.

 _Double-oh_  did their set, and Q watched with green eyes alight, smiling very faintly, with an edge of mocking that Bond couldn’t quite understand, but liked all the same.

“You have a good set,” Bond conceded, later, over drinks. They had all gone to a pub, just to enjoy for a while, the band and their crew, and of course Q’s quiet self. “I like the sound you’re going for.”

Q smiled, that same strange mocking thing, and his eyes were  _breathtakingly_  intense. “As I like yours,” he said simply, without the air of pseudo-reverence Bond was so used to hearing. “Although, you’re beginning to get stale. You need an edge now. Something unexpected.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “You’re a sarky little shit, aren’t you?”

Q raised his drink, and nodded slightly, sideways, that  _infuriating_  smile still quirking his features. “I aim to please,” he returned, with such casual ease. He knocked back the last of his drink, and looked at Bond with utter and terrifying focus. “I’m going now. Need to avoid a hangover if I’m attempting to play the piano.”

“A pity,” Bond told him, with an unapologetic ring of honesty. “Well. I suppose I’ll see you in the morning.”

Q was utterly still for a moment, and Bond got the impression that there was a question lingering, something Bond was expected to answer without knowing what had been asked in the first place.

Thus, he stayed silent.

Q turned away, and left.

Bond just watched him, with the sensation that he had just missed something rather important.

\---

Q glanced Bond over in the morning with a light smile; it tempered quickly, the green glinting in the brightness, shattering through the emerald and refracted into a million fragments that danced over Bond’s body, assessing and drawing and absorbing everything of him.

Bond couldn’t tear his gaze away, wouldn’t have been able to if he tried – and honestly, he wasn’t trying overly hard.

That evening marked their first performance; Q was practically in seclusion for the duration, and Bond spent the day in discussion with  _double-oh_. Q’s words lingered heavily in the back of his skull, an annoyingly insistent little suggestion, until Bond finally conceded defeat and asked Alec and Eve if they would be willing to try a few new things.

Alec looked deeply unimpressed at the prospect of testing ideas  _on the day of_  a concert. Eve was relatively open to the idea; she’d been pressing for some new developments for a little while, and didn’t care much  _when_  they tried them as much as she cared that they simply  _did_.

When they had finished with a few tracks, discussing ideas, contemplating the nuances they were able to adjust – an entire piece had moved into the minor, for example, which Alec looked frankly homicidal at – Bond caught sight of Q.

A slight smile that almost passed for approval, and the boy had vanished.

Bond couldn’t help but feel he’d passed some other perverse test that only Q was capable of constructing in such a way, and continued talking with his other band members, drawing in a very intrigued M who entirely agreed that the developments were  _excellent_.

Backstage, and Q was ready. He seemed entirely devoid of anxiety, of anything. It would be his largest audience to date, with his material.

“It’s what I love,” he explained simply, at Bond’s query. “This is me. I live for this. Why would I be scared?”

Bond was struck a little speechless at the explanation, which was enough to inspire another smile from Q. “You find me bizarre, don’t you?” he asked, apparently unconcerned with keeping that strange half-veneer of subtlety he almost held.

“I find you extraordinary,” Bond answered honestly.

For a moment, Q actually looked sideswiped. It was the very first time Bond had seen anything like it on the boy’s face; the cockiness dropped away in an instant, and Bond was confronted with the bare reality of a child who had never expected such words to be applied to  _him_.

Wordlessly, he disappeared onto the stage, and Bond watched with something suspended in his throat, tingling on the edge of expression as Q began, and Bond watched the simple truth of somebody losing themselves in something that made them alive.

\---

The first week went in a blur of light and sound and colour, as it always did. They were opening the tour in a static location, before up and outing; they performed nightly, to crowds that were monstrous and energy beyond electric, and said goodbye and moved onto the next location.

The get-out was considerably easier than any other aspect; they packed everything up, labelled things carefully, and shipped themselves out.

Q was found, asleep, curled beneath his piano, wires trailing over his legs and speakers boxing him in place.

Alec may have been channelling strong-and-silent, but he wasn’t oblivious; he quietly told Bond where he could find their young supporting artist, and felt the man to approach it however he liked.

Which, for Bond, meant quietly moving through the speakers, ducking to Q’s height; he reached a hand out, gently slipping beneath the boy’s small form, lifting him out and away from his hidden corner to find somewhere more comfortable to sit.

It would have worked beautifully, had Q not woken, realised he was airborne, and promptly panicked.

Bond just about managed to not drop the boy, instead abruptly falling to his knees, keeping Q’s body close against his own. “Calm down,” he said irritably, as Q twirled away from him, winding up a foot or so away, looking deeply suspicious and very sleepy.

“You were  _carrying me_ ,” Q said accusingly, blinking hugely, giving up after a moment to extract contact lenses from his eyes; he flicked them away, and conceded defeat to the furry edges of myopia. “ _Why_?”

Bond sank down slightly, sitting opposite Q, who squinted at him petulantly. It gave him the vague look of an annoyed kitten. “You didn’t look too comfortable,” Bond told him, trying to marry up the disconsolate child he had found with the enigma of an adult he knew, and realising they were synonymous. The enigma kept a child in its grasp, as much as it did the shades of adult Bond knew.

Q was  _impossible_ , and Bond couldn’t express just how entrancing that made him.

“Are you ever going to actually  _do_  anything?” Q asked conversationally, yawning, running a hand through his long hair and successfully making it pretty much stand on end. “You’re not very subtle, you know.”

It was all the encouragement Bond could ever need.

He leant in, and kissed the young man, pulling him close, bundling the pile of limbs into a bruising soft embrace, and refusing to let go.


	137. The Snarky Slave!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would love a fic where Q ends up getting sold as a slave (either because he’s been kidnapped or he’s deliberately undercover) + Bond buys him but then for whatever reason they can’t just leave + Q has to stay + pretend to be Bond’s slave which he is very snarky about but secretly loves it. – anon

Q was not happy.

This mission should have been a relatively simple in-and-out type of affair, and here he was, being sold off as a slave. In the twenty-first century. To a collection of men and women who did  _not_  look like they were going to make his life a pleasant place.

Of course, it  _should_  have been simple, which meant that sod’s law dictated it would be absolute chaos. Q had been kidnapped, beaten to hell and back, and mostly was just hoping if he did what they asked he could get a decent price; Q would never live it down if he went for sod-all.

Actually, the bidding seemed relatively promising. Men and women raised their placards at various points, and Q supposed that whatever they were gabbling in Chinese was relevant, and was making him seem like a decent investment.

The bidding ended quite abruptly, and Q sighed slightly. Hopefully somebody with minimal security, so MI6 could track him down.

When the man came forward, Q discovered his mind running through every single creative curse he knew in  _every_  language, and finding that none adequately covered just how pissed off he was.

-

“Be nice.”

“No.”

“It’s in my power to discipline you.”

“I’m going to  _kill you_.”

“Now, now, Q. I could always sell you on.”

“Oh, just,  _fuck you_.”

“I could.”

“Touch me, and I’ll fucking cut your fucking hand off.”

“ _Language_.”

“You’re not my mother.”

“No, I’m your  _master_.”

-

Bond was lucky to escape decapitation.

\---

 

Q hunched over into himself, and growled to himself.

“Stand up straight,” Bond told him shortly, grabbing Q’s upper arm; the younger man _hissed_ , and pulled himself out of Bond’s grip.

Abruptly, Q was flattened against the wall. “Double-oh seven…”

“You are going to  _blow this mission_  if you don’t behave like a bloody  _adult_ ,” Bond hissed, eyes blazing. “I didn’t buy you for bloody  _fun_. You’ve had your time to be pissed off, now let me get through this mission without either of us dying. Does that sound manageable?”

Q’s lip twitched in a vague snarl, but he seemed to concede defeat.

Bond let him go.

Of course, Q took that moment to try and punch him.

He didn’t count on Bond being a trained agent, for some reason; Bond pretty much had time to indulge in a full-scale eye roll before grabbing Q’s wrist, and twisting. The younger man twisted with him, half-squeaking as he was tilted sideways to avoid his wrist snapping. “ _Bond_ …”

“While we’re here, you call me ‘sir’,” Bond told him, unable to prevent a smirk; his Quartermaster was spectacularly endearing, when this indignant. “I know this is a great inconvenience, but I don’t care. I’ve been uncover for two and a half months, I’m not losing this now.”

Q opened his mouth, quite evidently on the verge of protest – “I…”

“ _No_. You do as I say. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Q. Now.”

The look Bond received was nothing short of homicidal. “Yes  _sir_.”

Bond breathed out slowly, trying very hard not to laugh at Q’s expression. “Good,” he said instead, in a far calmer tone. “Now. We need to go. Try and act slightly less like an upstart teenager? I will have to discipline you otherwise.”

“Bond…”

“I’m not actually joking,” Bond pointed out, expression more serious. “If you act out, they will expect me to punish you.”

Q’s face fell a little. “Oh.”

“Indeed,” Bond returned drily, moving to the door. “Alright. Shall we?”


	138. The Vesper!Spirit Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I love you guys and your writing styles. I’m always looking forward to your newest writings! I was wondering if you could fill my prompt: James is able to see the spirits of the dead, and Q has asked him to banish some really powerful and malevolent spirits from his house. – bondgirldreams

“Oh god.”

Bond had always wondered, of course. There was a part of him that had accepted the possibility from a very early stage, and had  _known_  there was not much he could do in either way, and certainly couldn’t  _force_  anything to happen – which, of course, he had initially wanted with all of his heart and soul.

No. It had happened after years, after Bond had made his peace, and begun to move on. Truly, honestly move on.

Q stood in his hallway, looking extremely sleep-deprived. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just remembered you actually know how to deal with these things, and I haven’t the faintest.”

The two had been dating, ish, for nearly two months. Bond took Q out to dinner, and they would head back to Bond’s flat once in a while; Bond had yet to go to Q’s, and it had taken a little bit of probing for Q to confess that he was relatively certain some form of spirit had just taken up occupation.

Bond had explained – he could see dead spirits, and was actually fairly adept at banishing them.

Initially, Q had waved it off; they would probably move on of their own accord, they usually did. Spirits would visit for a week or two at a time, before eventually just heading off back wherever they wished.

Only, Q’s had been there for nearly four weeks, and was being extremely nasty in the process.

Bond had walked in, and knew, and felt the impact of the realisation scatter like gunshots over his body, over his exposed skin.

Vesper.

Q looked at Bond curiously, worriedly. “James?” he asked quietly. “Are you alright?”

Bond nodded, without looking at him. Looking, instead, at the spirit of a love he had lost far too long ago, the spirit who was now making Bond’s new love’s life hell.

Love.

Well, that explained why Vesper was so annoyed. It explained a  _number_  of things. It also meant that Bond needed a conversation with Q, relatively soon, about the onward trajectory of their relationship because honestly, now he had been faced with the possibility, it was impossible to avoid the realisation that he was very much in love with Q. Already.

Bond closed his eyes, breathed out slowly.

“Don’t move,” he told Q simply, and readied himself.

\---

Bond breathed, steady and restrained, prepared to bring the world crashing outwards and inwards to expunge Vesper.

It went spectacularly badly.

Ghosts did not communicate through words. They communicated through thought, emotion, pain. Transfer of accessible energy means to fellow bodies, forcing themselves outwards and projecting their ‘selves’ onto and into another mind.

Bond could hear an impression of her voice. An amalgam of memory and truth, her presence and his recollection: she was so beautiful, so perfect, her voice a ringing constant that reminded him of a world half-forgotten but  _his_ , but theirs.

Q watched with utter confusion.

Vesper was  _not_  happy that Bond had fallen in love with somebody else.

After an hour or all-out fighting with thin air, Bond had to take a breather; he tried to get out of the door, sharply telling Q he needed to get out of the house.

Bond’s dead previous partner took the opportunity to possess his current partner.

“You fell in love with  _this_?!”

Q’s eyes had flashed  a green that wasn’t his. It was a darker green – Vesper had always possessed a darker tone, an edge, a blackness that lived in the depth of her pupils and drew in all around it, pulled objects and creatures into her particular orbit – and Bond watched it translate into  _Q_.

“Leave him,” Bond ordered softly, not entirely unkindly. “I had to. You died. You  _let yourself_  die.”

It seemed as though Q’s lips were plumping out, reddening, taking on that sensual hue and volume Bond could remember from the edges of a dream. “Him?” she asked again, twisting Q’s voice into something rich, sensuous, away from the clipped and almost airy quality that lived in his voice. “ _Him_?!”

“Go,” Bond told her again, harder now.

Vesper – Q – wrenched him into a kiss.

The true weakness of ghosts: an imprint of emotion. Bond grasped the edges of her being, dragged her out, felt the energies between her incorporeal form dissipate in his hands, his fingers, falling to pieces and sliding to the air, running away.

Q’s eyes were bright and emerald.

“You love me.”

Bond couldn’t quite smile, but it was an attempt all the same.

“I love you,” he agreed, and let  _Q_  kiss him this time, the shadows of Vesper still lingering on his lips.


	139. The Jex Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond is real. Q is real. 00Q is real. The last villain you wrote about is real, and he/she isn’t too pleased about having his activities broadcast on Tumblr so he kidnaps you, thinking you’re friends with Bond and Q. He contacts Bond and Q withsome threat and Bond goes after you. When he finds you he takes you back to HQ. Mainly because he and Q thought their relationship was secret. Your reactions to finding out it’s real and meeting Bond and Q and their reaction to you knowing their life – siriuslymad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this is Jen and Lex of ConsultingWriters, inserted into a series of fills... :)

Lex groaned, body aching as she attempted to open her eyes, wondering what in the hell she had been doing the night before.

"Hello?"

Lex crinkled her forehead in utter confusion. “Love? Jen?” she asked, trying to identify her voice.

Jen, meanwhile, was extremely, monumentally Not Happy. “Two things,” she growled. “One, tied to a chair. Two,  _what the fuck possessed us to ever start writing_?!”

"What?" Lex asked, slow to catch up as her brain attempted to make sense of words in general. Tied. To a chair. Not helpful. "Why writing?"

"Lex, we write stories.  _Fictional_  stories. Yes?”

Everything seemed a little bit blurry around the edges. “Fictional?”

Jen swallowed slightly. “Lex, it is  _really fucking important_  that you iterate the fictional nature of everything we write  _right now_ ”.

Lex blinked, trying to reach for her partner’s hand, still completely unable to see her: back to back, it would seem. “Yes. Fictional, unreal, fake, based mainly off TV shows and films - fanfiction mostly - will this be going on some kind of record?”

Jen watched the other person in the room, eyebrow raised in a manner she hoped was relatively cocky. “Good,” she said firmly. “So - tied to a chair. Kidnapped. Lex, I’m going to tell you something, and you’re going to have to go with it and believe me when I say I do  _not_  have concussion or any drugs in my system.”

"Alright," Lex breathed, stomach flipping. "I love you, by the way."

Jen’s mouth fell slightly open. “Really the time?”

"In case I don’t get to say it…" Lex trailed off.

Jen let out another slow breath, squeezing Lex’s fingers encouragingly. “Real-life scenario for once,” she managed, panic making her talk at a truly stupendous speed. “Sentiments are lovely but really fucking pointless, Raoul Silva’s staring at me and smirking darling, and he has a gun, and wants contact details for James Bond and Q which I think could be a fucking goddamn  _problem_.”

"Sounds like a fucking prompt fill," Lex tried, trying to deflect and failing, Jen’s panic augmenting the early seeds of her own fears. "What the fuck do we know? I can’t give you Harry Potter’s address either… oh god…"

"Sarcasm?" asked a distinctly Spanish accent. "Truly, this is when you choose to be sarcastic?"

"Seconded," Jen mumbled, and breathed a little sporadically, wondering if they should have - at some stage - written in a Silva-related loophole where he didn’t torture girls. Or something. Anything would be good, at this stage. "Look, we really don’t have any informa…"

An abrupt surge of movement; Jen cringed on instinct, abruptly yelling as Silva went for Lex, instead.

Lex froze, metal pressing against her temple. The man was terrifying; Javier Bardem had nothing on him. He appeared in the process of a stroke, one side of his face hanging down lower than the other, hair white from the roots and ragged. It was truly terrifying. “Please,” Lex murmured, every muscle taught. “We don’t know anything, we don’t know them in reality. We tell stories. It’s  _fiction_. We didn’t know  _you_  exist!”

Jen had completely lost any and all ability to breathe. “Leave her alone,” she said calmly, firmly, throat practically closed and trying very hard not to cry. “Please – we can’t tell you anything, there’s nothing to  _tell_ …”

The door slammed open; shots were fired, Jen shrieked at an awe-inspiring pitch, and Lex kicked upwards. Silva gave a throttled groan, in tandem with another man essentially  _pouncing_ ; everything seemed to be very loud and very quick and very violent, and it was far too much to take it in one go.

Everything stilled. Silva was unconscious, and Jen was practically dislocating her arm to get free, and Lex looked somewhere between smug and horrified, and in the doorway stood Daniel Craig’s doppelganger, smiling at them cockily. “Bond,” he said, by way of introduction, Lex and Jen’s lips both framing the final words in mute disbelief. “James Bond.”

\---

The transportation to MI6 was surprisingly palatable. Jen was surprising good with the general concept of MI6 as a whole - although conceded that a lot of that was probably due to suspended shock - and Lex was blinking a little too quickly and wouldn’t stop talking.

Oh, and they were both technically in MI6 custody. Which was probably less good.

James Bond turned out very much to be the strong and silent type, saying nothing to either of the women as they gradually made their way across London. Lex had managed to avoid hyperventilating at the concept of  _living fictional character that want to kill us_  while Jen was still conscious, and worryingly frozen in place. All in all, the ride could have been worse.

They were ordered in brisk tones to leave the car, at which point, they were separated.

Both were quite distinctly less than impressed. Lex had survival instincts enough to not start snapping at the agent, and Jen – apparently – didn’t. “She’s my partner,” Jen hissed, body bristling, tensing as though there was a hope in hell of fighting off a damn thing. “We’ve just been held at bloody gunpoint, and you’re supposed to be the good guys…”

"You were abducted by a known terrorist who you claim to have no association with, know about myself and the Quartermaster of MI6, understand MI6 workings, and your records show no reason you would have such knowledge."

Lex inhaled, an odd sense of calm overcoming her. “We are writers, we write fanfiction. Based mainly on the Skyfall film - any knowledge we have of MI6 or indeed of its personnel are either gained from the film, from fans or just our imagination. We could not have known that any of it was real,” she explained, utterly factual. Jen turned to her, looking fairly impressed; Lex stood, shaking now, hand holding tightly onto Jen’s. “And you may be large and slightly terrifying but I am not leaving her.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, and essentially wrenched the pair apart; other personnel joined, the pair putting up the earliest attempts at a fight before conceding that they were grossly outclassed.

-

Jen was very, very still. Handcuffed to a chair, and very, very still. “Where, the  _fuck_ , is Lex?” she asked, exceptionally slowly, trying to make words happen properly and distantly terrified out of his mind.

"In a holding cell," a remarkably collected voice commented, from the other side of the room. “Good afternoon. I’m Q, Quartermaster of MI6.”

Q stepped forward; he was slightly older than his film counterpart - perhaps his early thirties – with a hint of stubble that spoke more of stress than any desire to actually _have_  a beard. The glasses were similar, hair dark and slightly curling, eyes a bright bottle green.

Jen blinked. “Fuck,” she mumbled. “They cast you well. Is she alright?”

The almost-Ben-Whishaw-but-not moved forward, and Jen abruptly had an image of Ben Whishaw and a kitten, and was immediately very much struck by the fact that the man in front of her did  _not_  look like somebody who possessed many furry animals. The green was laced with utter steel, as he sat opposite her.

"Explain to me how you’re aware of the relationship between myself and 007?"

-

Lex stared at the man opposite with general awe, and a fair degree of concern.

"Can I offer you a drink? Cigarette?" Bond asked conversationally.

"No, thank you," Lex replied, wetting her lips as she look around the cell. "I would like to see my partner."

Bond poured himself a glass of water, Lex watching him carefully. “You know I can’t do that.”

"No solicitor, or any human rights laws?" Lex tried, watching as he swallowed. "Please. I just want to know she’s safe."

-

"You even know my cat’s name!" Q demanded angrily as Jen continued her insistent denial of any information.

"You own a cat?" Jen returned, mildly bemused, and really at a loss for what she could possibly say, and trying to tally up how much of what she had written was accurate and landing on some very odd conclusions. "Erm… as a point of academic interest, do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

-

Bond was just about reaching the end of his tether. “ _How did you find this information?_ " he demanded, leaning in close, Lex cringing back a little.

“ _We didn’t!_  We imagined it, we researched what other people had written - there are other fanfiction writers, have you chased down everyone with a blog?” Lex shook slightly, a short barking laugh spilling out of her. “If we found out anything we should have it was accidental - you were made up, just a fictional character, someone we admired. It was nice to write about a relationship that worked so well, or at least we imaged would.”

Bond moved in, faces inches from her own. “Raoul Silva became interested in you both,” he said in a low, distinctly ominous tone. “That is more than  _fiction_.”

"You  _think_?!”

-

"I was actually getting onto that," Q noted drily. "How in the hell do you know my brother?"

Jen’s jaw dropped.

\---

"Who doesn’t know Sherlock Holmes?" Jen replied, jaw still slack with shock, . "He’s one of the most famous fictional characters in history! Not to mention the new adaptation…"

Q raised an eyebrow. “I’m aware that Sherlock is relatively well known,” he said curtly. “I’m asking how you knew we were related.”

Jen was frozen. Utterly and completely frozen. “Sherlock Holmes is also real?” she asked, a little slowly. “I… what?!”

-

Lex was being exceptionally, impressively stubborn. “Let me see her,” she asked again, voice firm.

"Not until you tell me how you know this – look…" Bond conceded, running a hand through his cropped hair. “I want to help you. If you just tell me, I will let you see her."

-

It got better.

-

Twenty-four hours later, and Jen was bemused, and Lex was trying to convey that they were bloody  _fanfic writers_ , and nobody in MI6 knew what was going on - which meant calling in the great detective himself.

Neither Lex nor Jen had seen one another since their arrival. Lex optimistically looked up when the door opened; Sherlock scanned her up and down. “Nothing of interest,” he drawled to Q. “The other?”

"Where is…"

The door slammed.

Sherlock moved to the next door - bloody insulting, they were less than a foot away without knowing - and looked in. “Now that,” he murmured, “is more interesting”.

Sherlock paced, looking Jen up and down, scanning.

The woman betrayed nothing but surprise as she was observed, looking at the man before her in ostensible shock; Sherlock was just taller than Q, with similarly wild hair, though not quite Cumberbatch’s cheekbones.

"How long?" he asked, stopping in front of her.

Jen looked straight back, expression still wide and open, almost naïve. “How long what?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. In the doorway, Bond was quiet, a steady figure, watching carefully. “How long,” Sherlock repeated, “have you been working contrary to the efforts of the British Government?”

Jen’s posture abruptly softened, eyes sharp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"Interrogation, I think, may be your only option,” Sherlock told Bond simply, drily, ignoring Jen entirely; she watched, jaw set and expression curiously cold. “As to her partner, I will speak to her myself. Either she is a truly exceptional liar, or entirely innocent.”

He left without a further word, Bond waiting in the doorway with a merciless expression.

-

"Sherlock Holmes." Lex managed, gaping as he entered, sweeping into the seat opposite. “Fuck.  _Sherlock Holmes_.”

“Indeed. And you are Lex?”

Lex nodded.

A moment of quiet. Sherlock’s expression remained entirely impassive. “Are you aware that your partner has known, from the outset, of the existence of Q and indeed James Bond?” he asked simply. “And, one can further extrapolate, not necessarily for positive reasons.”

Divine providence meant that  _that_  was the moment the lights went out.


	140. The Parent!M Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Love your work. Check every night before I go to sleep and every morning when I wake up. It always sets me up for the day. Anyway, could you do one were Q is M’s (Mallory) son and no one knows because Q’s scared they’ll all think that’s why he has the job. Q still lives at home with his dad and when Q’s at home he acts like a moody teenager. If you can get some 00Q in there too that would be amazing. Thanks! :D <3 – anon

"Not on the floor," came the voice through the hall, as Q dumped his bag in the middle of the carpet. "Hang it up, for god’s sake."

Q rolled his eyes, cursing the goddamn student loan that had meant he had insufficient money to get his  _own_  bloody flat at the age of twenty-one. He hung his bag up, toed off his shoes in an untidy heap, and ambled into the kitchen to optimistically scout out caffeine.

His father sat in the kitchen, laptop open and coffee in front. “Kettle’s just boiled,” he told the Quartermaster; Q nodded, padding to the tea happily.

"No, I’ve told you we are cutting that," Mallory said suddenly, finger on his headset, voice tense. "No room in the budget or my blood pressure."

Q traipsed to the cupboard, yanking off his tie and tossing it over a kitchen chair; a stern look was enough to make him roll it neatly, grimacing slightly as he did so before withdrawing himself and his tea to watch the Bake Off in peace.

Of course, ten minutes later, and Mallory had muted it. “How was it?” he asked seriously, looking his son up and down.

"Asking as my boss or…?" Q asked, fingers around his massive teacup.

"Both, Q," his father replied, loosening his own tie. "NASA don’t seem thrilled."

"No, they wouldn’t be," Q replied, allowing himself a small chuckle. "Some of those gaps in the system were childish - though I will say those ideas were my own, no matter how many Americans attempt to steal them."

Mallory looked less than impressed, the pair exchanging glances in which Q understood himself to be reprimanded. “How is… how’s James?” Mallory managed, suddenly not looking his son in the eye.

Q busied himself staring into his teacup. “Fine.”

"You two are… getting along?" Mallory confirmed, much to Q’s horror.

Q stared at the cup, tips of his ears turning a glorious shade of scarlet. “Yes, and oh god stop talking

Mallory let out a slight sigh. “Q, a relationship between MI6 personal is an important issue, espically for me…” Mallory began, silencing as Q glared.

"No, you are bloody nosy. And no, he doesn’t know about you, us, yet," Q told him, as Mallory nodded.

"Are you going to tell him?"

"At some point, I’m sure it will become necessary, until that point - not yet, I don’t want him thinking…" Q trailed off. Silence reigned. Q swallowed. "Turn the bloody telly back on, I want to see if her pastry held."

\---

Finally, after nearly a year of dating, they were in the Forbidden Territory: Q’s home.

It had always been back to Bond’s flat, to a hotel, occasionally in Q’s office if they were pressed or particularly enthusiastic.

Now, finally, Bond was entering the hallway of the impressive Victorian detached; it was gorgeous, elegantly decorated and not really showing many hallmarks – internally – of the elaborate façade. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Bond commented, as he glanced around. “Why have you been keeping this hidden?”

“I’m just quite private,” Q replied distractedly, eyes darting around, as though there was something amiss somewhere. “Would you like to come up to the bedroom?”

Bond smiled slightly. “I was hoping for a drink, but I’ll never refuse an offer of the bedroom,” he teased, Q dragging him towards the staircase with apparent urgency.

"Q? Q is that you?"

"Fuck.  _Fuck_ , I knew it,” Q managed as the lights were flicked on. “What the  _hell_  are you doing here?! I thought you were in France!”

Bond looked from his boss, and back to his Quartermaster and tried not to commit homicide.

Q looked to him in panic. “It’s not what you think…” he began as Mallory approached them.

"Meeting cancelled," he grunted, nodding to Bond, utterly casual and apparently oblivious to Bond and Q’s respective reactions.

Q blushed, furiously aware of the love bites peppering his exposed neck and chest. “James, M, is my father.”

"Your what?" Bond managed, looking between the pair.

“Father,” Mallory repeated, distinctly not looking at Q’s dishevelled form.

Bond blinked, turning to Q with a raised eyebrow. “And you never told me this because…?”

"Well to be fair, you never asked…" Q replied, offering a weak smile. It cut no ice whatsoever. "Fine. Look, I don’t want people to think I only got the job because of him."

"Q, you are the greatest Quartermaster in…" Bond began; Mallory cut him off.

"We’ve been there, it’s been decided, we know.”

"We’ll just head out…" Q tried, yanking Bond towards the door as fast as they’d entered.

"Nonsense - please come and sit down, I’ll put the kettle on," Mallory told them, in a voice of he-who-must-be-obeyed. Never before had an offer of tea sounded so terrifying.

Both men trailed behind, Q looking steadily more afraid. “Now 007, there are a few things you should know about dating my son…”

Q sank his head into his hands.


	141. The College Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey there i love your writings i basically live off of your 00Q fics! If its not too much trouble, could you write something kind of like a college AU? Maybe Q and Bond meet at a party or something and decide to ditch it together? Fluff and nsfw plz! – anon

"Hello beautiful.”

Q blushed, and turned to look at the man behind him. It was fresher’s week, and someone had thrown a house party; Q was already on his third beer, not to mention his fifth shot of… something or other, he had no idea what. He giggled a little, looking at what looked like a genuine god. “You’re pretty,” he mumbled, smile light and inviting. “Erm… so. I’m Q. Comp-sci. You?”

"Bond, James Bond. Oriental languages," he smirked, moving closer to Q, steadying him as he swayed. "How much have you had?"

"Well, if you are talking to me, then clearly a good amount," Q laughed, looking up at the beautiful blond man with an arm around him.

James - apparently - smiled at him. His eyes were so blue, so very very blue, and Q exhaled slowly. “Well,” James smiled, looking over him carefully. “I think we can both consider ourselves lucky.”

Q blinked, wondering if he was dreaming, and liking it a lot either way. “Erm… want to go? Drinks? Or not, I probably shouldn’t, you’ll think I’m an alcoholic.”

"No, I’ll think you’re a fresher," James returned with a grin.

"How old are you?" Q asked, blushing suddenly, "I mean, what year? You’re not a lecturer are you?"

Bond chuckled as he pulled Q closer, tilting his chin up and staring into bright green eyes.

"No, though I wouldn’t mind you calling me ‘sir’," he murmured obscenely, Q feeling the firmness of Bond’s body against him.

Q raised an eyebrow. “You’re… taking advantage, Mr Bond,” he managed, annoyed at how difficult it was to form words.

James, dutifully, moved back a pace. “No dishonourable intentions until you’re well and truly sober,” he said, with a mockingly official nod. “Scout’s honour.”

"Scouts?"

"Cadets," he amended with a shrug, once again reaching out as Q swayed slightly in the breeze.

"Pity," Q smirked, looking to the floor. "I’ll be sober in the morning…" he pointed out, a part of him desperately hoping the man would still want him.

"Where are you staying?" Bond asked, "I’ll walk you home,"

"…I could stay at yours? Then you can take advantage of me the moment I am sober," Q suggested, leaning back up against Bond.

Bond smiled slightly, looping an arm around Q’s waist to keep him upright. “Let’s see how you feel in the morning,” he acceded. “I’d prefer to keep an eye on you anyway.”

"Feel free," Q said, with a laugh he hoped was flirtatious, and just managed to sound a little crazed.

-

He woke up in the morning on somebody else’s bed, feeling like he had been hit by a truck, and with the single most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life asleep on the sofa.

\---

Q blushed slightly, as the absolutely  _gorgeous_  man he had managed to get taken home by the previous night appeared in the doorway, hair mussed,  _still_  looking like an absolute god while Q honestly felt like a slightly rumpled cat.

“How’re you feeling?” the gorgeous man asked.

For a moment, Q could only gape. “Pretty good,” he managed eventually, smiling, looking the man over and grappling for a name, eventually coming up with a remembrance of  _Bond. James Bond_  and feeling a shiver go all the way up his spine. “You?”

Bond grinned. “Excellent,” he replied, with a smile that bordered on obscene. “How much do you remember?”

Q flushed a charming shade of pink. “Everything,” he admitted, memories filtering back by increments.

“Still interested?”

A moment of speechless disbelief. “Seriously?” Q asked, blinking. “You still…  _yes_ , of course I do, but I didn’t think…”

The sentence never got finished, given that Bond essentially  _pounced,_ kissing with a delectable force that made everything in Q turn to water, arms moving to twine around him, kissing back with strength of his own, moaning as they fell into the crumpled heap of duvet and simply didn’t stop, Bond’s mouth covering his throat, worshipping down the planes of his body while Q parried, accepting that for  _whatever_ reason, James Bond had decided he liked him, and he had absolutely no intention of arguing.

The slight rasp of nails on skin as shirts were tugged open, T-shirt ripped off, skin against skin as they grew hotter, burning one another with simple contact, warm lips and breath and tongues and teeth, Q growling out want against Bond’s skin while his hands moved with shocking dexterity. “Sure you want to do this?” Bond asked him, breath tickling his ear.

Q replied by sliding a hand down Bond’s body, and cupping his groin, feeling the hardness beneath the layers of fabric. “I do if you do,” he replied, adding just a little pressure, enough to make Bond groan.

That was enough. Q teasingly played a little, Bond beginning to buck for more, still kissing Q with enough skill to leave him utterly breathless. “More,” Bond growled; Q obliged, hand flat on Bond’s muscled abdomen before slipping below the waistband, fingers brushing, not quite giving him  _enough_  but making him all but blind with want. “ _Fuck_ , Q,  _more_.”

Q laughed slightly, and merrily obliged.

\---

Q had gone a little bit white, by the time everybody had stopped taking the piss.

He had been taken for a mug. He had managed to get taken in by the oldest trick in the bloody book, and he probably shouldn’t have been surprised, and oh good  _god_  he hated himself for being such a goddamn idiot.

There was no point in a confrontation, no point in arguing. Q blocked Bond’s number, ignored absolutely every single one of his calls, deleted texts without reading, and moved on with his life with his dignity almost entirely shattered and a small bubble of regretful hatred somewhere in his spine.

The  _bastard_.

Q would not be the first, he would not be the last. James Bond. Apparently one of the greatest seducers in the entire  _sodding_  college, and Q had managed to miss the goddamn fucking memo.

Honestly, the sex had been amazing. Everything about him had been amazing. His smile and his voice, and the conversation over breakfast, and the way they had talked and exchanged ideas and Q had found himself speechlessly, desperately attracted and had seen him the next night, and the night after that.

Until a friend had pointed out something that  _everybody else knew_.

A week passed. Bond got more insistent. Q got more irate.

The phone rang,  _again_. “Piss off.”

“What did I do?!” Bond asked, sounding somewhere between aggravated and upset. “Q, I…”

“You know precisely fucking what,” Q snapped at him, and hung up.

Then, of course, Bond had the audacity to  _show up at his dorm_. “Of course,” Q muttered, looking the (ridiculously gorgeous) tosser up and down. “Now you’re here. What do you want?”

“Whatever I did,” Bond began, with an expression of absolute contrition, “I’m so sorry. I think I can guess.”

Q rolled his eyes, stepped back to allow him in. Bond obliged, turning to Q the moment he could. “You’re… Q, I really like you. I care about you. It wasn’t – it  _isn’t_  – about sex. You’re incredibly hot, don’t get me wrong, but you’re… Q, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

“This is the most roundabout attempt at dating I have ever encountered,” Q parried drily, still not spectacularly impressed. “James, I’ve heard tale of your track record.”

Bond let out a small sigh. “I know,” he said honestly, very frankly. “I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But Q, I’ve given you no reason not to trust me. Leave my past where it is, I’m sure it’ll haunt amply in coming years – but look, I’ve been trying to track you down for a week. You mean more than a quick shag.”

It had to be said, the man had a point. “Dinner?” Q repeated again, still with a touch of suspicion.

“Tonight, if you like.”

Q’s mouth quirked in a very slight smile. “Aren’t you in luck, I’m actually free,” he returned, a little gentler this time. “Come back here at eight. Deal?”

“Deal,” Bond said, and his smile reminded Q of every single reason he had liked the boy in the first place.


	142. The Twin Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi love your stuff anyhoo not sure if you have this one yet but I was thinking that Q had an exact twin completely identical and he finds his twin with James at their flat in the bedroom about to do stuff, and Q is hurt and confronts them and James is flabbergasted by it all he didnt know that this wasnt Q and Q cant believe he didnt know angst please and of course end in fluff for the others ill take the angst maybe a little NSFW – anon

Bond was still walking in a straight line, mostly because he was adept enough to know his own limitations, and accustomed to his own alcoholism; walking was rarely problematic. Speech and general cognisance were relatively limited though, he had to concede.

Q all but pounced when Bond walked through the door; he had no time to respond before his – admittedly gorgeous – boyfriend was all over him. It was impossible to resist, and Bond honestly had no inclination to resist either.

The mission had been a living hell, and judging by the way Q was devouring him, he anticipated that Bond would be having difficulties and needed distraction.

A minute or two in bed later, and Bond was blinking curiously. “You never had that before,” he mumbled, fingers dancing over a black tattoo that was etched into Q’s forearm.

“That’s because it’s not me,” a voice supplied, slightly dull, a hollow sound of disbelief and utter sadness. “Oh god, James.”

Bond looked up, blinking blearily, to see Q in the doorway

Q, beneath him, grinned with a black glint.

A moment later, Bond was scrambling back, going for his gun and finding it – terrifyingly – absent. He glanced over the Q he had been in bed with, to find the gun pointed at himself, eyes fixed on Q instead. “Hello, brother dear,” the not-Q purred.

The voice was all wrong, rougher somehow, like it had been through a lifetime of smoke and abuse. “Somebody fucking explain,” Bond hissed, trousers roughly fastened, the Q in the doorway looking quietly resigned.

“My twin brother,” the doorway-Q murmured. “You were about to fuck my twin, James. Well done.”

Bond looked to the other man sharply, the not-Q, Q’s twin, smirked. “Congratulations on not realising,” he purred, while Q remained very still, and the gun didn’t waver. “This has been in planning for such a long while.”

“Revenge?” Q asked quietly, sadly. “After all this time, you’re still seeking revenge on me?”

Not-Q snarled. “I waited years for this,” he hissed. “Now, you’re going to watch me kill your lover. I wanted to fuck him first, but this will still do nicely.”

Q breathed out slowly. “Please, Ben,” he murmured. “He hasn’t done anything. Shoot me if you like, I don’t mind. The forearm will do, that’ll ruin my job, and has a poignancy – but leave James alone. Please.”

Ben looked appraisingly at his brother for a moment, green eyes sparking, darkened still in a way Bond couldn’t quite describe. “No,” he said shortly, and pulled the trigger.

\---

Bond had anticipated the shot seconds before it came; he shifted weight, taking the advantage where he could, his priority simply Q. The aim was to harm Q, ultimately, even it was using Bond as a proxy.

Ben snarled, livid, and Q looked at Bond for a fractured second with unbelievable hurt lingering somewhere in his eyes, a form that took Bond’s breath away, and he dreamed of a strangled apology as Ben tried to fire again, his entire body sensuous and sliding, moving gorgeously through and over and around, entrancing. “Ben,  _stop_ ,” Q pleaded, in a strange tone, one Bond didn’t recognise.

Words were getting nowhere; Bond could only go on the offensive. “James, don’t hurt him,” Q cried at him, as Ben snarled like a goddamn  _animal_ , darting up and out of the bed, moving like a shot to Q.

Q didn’t even try to defend himself.

Bond paused, seeing two Q’s. A gun to one’s head, the other holding it with a naked type of fury, indeterminate, the rage of a desperate man who had lost so much, and knew no other way to escape. “Move back,” Ben ordered, voice still rough, a hiss edge to it. “Against the wall. Hands away from your body. Do I make myself clear?”

Q’s expression didn’t change, he didn’t try to communicate, but the threat was amply clear. Bond did as he was told, moving slowly. “I…”

“Do not speak,” Ben interjected, jabbing the gun slightly; Q’s body was essentially fluid, shifting wherever Ben manipulated. “Q. Alright. I don’t intend to kill you.”

It was odd; the voice was almost the same, a heartbeat away, the diction the same. Somewhere, they could have been interchangeable. In many regards, they still were. The green was still intense and hypnotic, body lithe and eloquent in motion. “Then don’t,” Q returned simply.

Ben’s posture relaxed slightly, and Bond’s became more tense: the relaxation indicated that the adrenaline was dying out. An idea had been stumbled upon. Ben had made a decision.

“Go on then,” he coaxed, softly. “I won’t touch him. Your arm.”

Q closed his eyes for a moment, body shaking abruptly. Bond watched as tears slid in absolute silence from closed eyes. “Ben…”

“Your bargain, not mine,” the man hissed back. “I was going to leave that alone, leave you to do your goddamn job and just take out him, but no, you won’t let me do that. I’m going to take something. Him or your job, Q.”

Q’s eyes snapped open, fixed on Bond. Ben still had the gun fixed under his chin. “James,” Q said, very clearly, expression curiously calm barring the absolutely silent tears. “James, this is my decision to make. Respect that.”

Ben grinned, all teeth, as Q lifted his arm, bare skin exposed, hand with fingers trailing towards the palm, shaking in spite of his best efforts. “Q…”

“I said  _respect that_ ,” Q snapped at him, the trembling increasing slightly.

“Somebody taught you to feel,” Ben purred, gun trailing a path along Q’s skin. “Impressive. Well done, Mr Bond. And there I thought you were just good in bed.”

Bond did as Q had asked: he stayed perfectly silent, just keeping contact with Q somehow, the sheen covering his bottle-green eyes and the promise of hurt, the fear of hurt. The pain of it being his  _brother_ , his doppelganger, and Bond still wondered if this was some aspect of imagination taunting him outright.

The gun moved away, placed directly against the bare skin of Q’s forearm, and Q snatched a breath.


	143. The Sherlock/Bondlock Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would love a Bondlock fic where when someone joins M16, their family, if they have any left, is told that they have died somehow and their body cannot be retrieved. When the Holmses are told that Q is dead, Sherlock thinks something smells fishy about the whole thing, and goes searching for answers. Bonus points if Mycroft warns him against it. – anon

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock hadn’t spoken in a long while. A very long while. He was staring at the opposite wall, blinking languidly, jaw tight in a way that spoke of utter fury and some loss, something indiscernible.

A slow breath. “My brother died this morning, apparently,” he drawled, lips pursed. “Mycroft rang earlier.”

“My god. What happened?” John asked, voice heavy with very genuine concern. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock looked up slightly, as though confused by the question. “Of course. I am not dead. My brother, however, is potentially dead. I am sceptical, and am not precisely prone to grief in a conventional manner, as I’m certain even you were able to observe in the case of the Woman.”

John let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes. I noticed. So – you’re sceptical? I thought Mycroft…”

“Mycroft is a good liar,” Sherlock noted, raising an eyebrow. “My brother has never been easily dispatched, and he had no natural conditions that would cause any form of death. Thus, I am extremely sceptical. Mycroft has also warned me, in strenuous terms, to not look into it closely. Supposedly, I would find it distressing.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Even I know you wouldn’t be distressed at a death, especially where there’s intrigue,” John pointed out, with a slight smile. “So, where do we start?”

Sherlock looked up, and managed a truly maniacal grin. “I need to trace the untraceable man,” Sherlock told him delightedly, and grabbed John’s laptop.

\---

It took four days.

Sherlock had refused to eat, sleep, or indeed function as a normal human being in that time; the funeral was supposedly to be that weekend, which meant Mycroft continued visiting to establish whether or not Sherlock was coping, with an encroaching edge of worry that was literally visible.

John was beginning to wonder, in a way he truly did not want to acknowledge, whether Sherlock was wrong. Whether grief was clouding all judgement.

The frenzy was reaching fever-pitch. Mycroft asked John to speak to Sherlock, quietly, and perhaps recommend further courses of action if his brother didn’t calm down; John watched Sherlock with concern bubbling under his skin, and was bluntly and often rudely ignored if he tried to broach the subject.

Then, there was a breakthrough.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock breathed. “Mycroft.  _Mycroft_. John, I officially have reason to believe – despite your transparent cynicism, and Mycroft’s consistent lies – that my youngest brother is very much alive”.

John moved to Sherlock’s side, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen, and seeing a grand total of sod-all that made any sense. It looked like something to do with an anachronistic aspect of MI6, if the watermarking was anything to go by. “Sherlock…”

“He’s become Quartermaster of MI6,” Sherlock stated flatly, delightedly. “Superb. Definitely not dead. I’m going to murder him, but at least I have the comfort of doing it myself. And, indeed, Mycroft.”

Which was the point at which the doorbell rang. “Do I want to know?”

“Ah,” Sherlock replied calmly. “That will probably be some faction of MI6 who are exceptionally unhappy with what I have just discovered. If we are fortunate, they will be Mycroft’s men. If we are not, then please be intelligent enough to do as they ask.”

John blinked. “Brilliant,” he muttered, as the door opened.

He had honestly been expecting somebody to crash through it; instead, the tall blonde man in the doorway just turned the handle, and scanned over the room somewhat wearily. He raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, upon seeing Sherlock. “You must be Sherlock Holmes,” he said neutrally. “And Doctor John Watson. My name is Bond, James Bond. If you could both come with me? I’m sure you’re aware of why.”

“Perfectly,” Sherlock agreed, almost amicably, which really did  _not_  suit him as an expression. “I will accompany you, if you allow me to speak with your Quartermaster, through your earpiece, first.”

Bond looked immensely, immediately suspicious; he papered over the expression in a heartbeat, extracted the earpiece, and dropped it into Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock lifted it to his ear, and was silent for a long moment.

“I have no intention of forgiving you, nor Mycroft. For reasons best known to yourselves, you chose to make me believe you were dead – I do not consider that forgivable. If you could call off your dogs, I would like to return to my daily life. Thank you.”

Sherlock extended a hand back to Bond; John snagged it halfway. “John Watson speaking,” he said simply, as Bond and Sherlock both watched, apparently too shocked to do much. “Yes, I know he’s a hypocrite, I’ll speak to him. He hasn’t slept in four days though, so give him time to calm down… yes. Yes… I know that, I live with the man… yes. Cheers. Yes, that sounds good. Ta.”

He handed back the earpiece, and turned on Sherlock, who watched him silently. “You will talk to him,” he said flatly, while Bond tried – and failed – to suppress a smirk. “Tea?” he offered Bond; he waited for the answering nod, before heading towards the kitchen. “ _Bloody idiot…_ ”


	144. The Hostage!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is nonchalant and uncaring about his own injuries but panics at the sight of any injury on Q. Quite a bad day for him then, when he wakes up from a nightmare about enemies torturing his lover and answers a phone call that a wounded Q has been taken by armed gunmen who infiltrated MI6. Dundundundun… – anon

_… screaming, blood everywhere and cries, pleas, green eyes dark with pain and that voice, consonants blurring, screaming…_

The phone rang.

Bond was sat up in bed instantly, every alert sharpened to needlepoint. The dreams only came once in a while, but Bond inevitably found himself barely holding himself together afterwards, as he breathed and tried to make the images fade and the voices stop ringing with terrifying insistence.

Hand darted to phone, to ear.

“Bond, we need you on site. MI6 breach. They have Q, they’ve locked down Q-branch. We’re categorising this as a code red hostage situation.”

Instantly, Bond was moving, dressing. Q had been in all night – his work hours had always been absurd – and was one of MI6’s most valuable commodities.

Not to mention that Bond was very much in love with him.

“Is Q alright?”

Tanner’s voice hesitated a moment, and Bond let out a slight growl. “They broke his ankle to stop him running,” he said softly. “They’ve made it clear that if we do not accede to their demands, they’ll start killing off Q-branch staff. Q is their main bargaining chip, but we believe they want him for their own purposes…”

Every single part of Bond hardened in an instant.

“Demands?”

“Classified; they’re speaking directly to M and the central MI6 board,” Tanner returned. “Negotiations are occurring now. Q-branch staff have managed to get some messages out: we believe Q is being asked to use computers, as yet no confirmations on what. There is a running video link as we speak.”

In moments, Bond was in MI6; everything was occurring in the main conference rooms, with a battalion of armed men waiting outside Q-branch itself. Twelve hostages. Three already dead. At least two injured, but stable.

Then there was Q.

They certainly wanted him doing  _something_ ; that much was evident in the offscreen sounds, the wet thump of impact to a stomach, a groin, the winded and rasping sounds and occasional screams.

Q was dragged on screen at one stage; he looked blurrily at the camera, saw Bond. “’M sorry,” he mumbled, before being removed again; he was there to prove a point, to illustrate that they were running out of time before matters escalated.

An hour later, and Bond was outfitted, about to attempt an entry into Q-branch through a lower grate.

Nine hostages remaining.

Q had turned worryingly quiet.

Bond slithered out, and prepared for action.

 ---

Q was barely conscious, R holding onto him as the younger man shivered, mind engaged even if his body was trickling away from him with every passing moment.

“Final chance,” one of them grunted, yanking one of the Q-branch minions up by her hair, eliciting a small cry; she was young, one of Q’s protégées, as they all were, and she looked to her boss and her friend and was so obviously, transparently terrified of dying as a gun nestled under her chin. “ _Now_.”

R’s fingers squeezed Q’s, pre-emptive forgiveness, and Q schooled himself to keep his eyes on her – Heloise, her name was, Heloise who had been born in Paris and schooled in France before moving to England, going to Cambridge, and had a boyfriend of two months who was probably not very good for her and they had a flat and her use of Hex made Q’s mouth dry once in a while, and she deserved so much better – and saw her eyes darken and the gunshot was an afterthought, and Q retched violently and couldn’t stop shivering.

Bond’s brief was to retrieve as many alive as possible. Q was invaluable, but quite frankly, all of Q-branch were rather precious commodities. Four dead, now, of a limited team that Q had selected because of their raw brilliance, and Bond watched carefully and waited, waited, trying to find his moment.

Q had been beaten, that much was obvious. Almost all the male members of Q-branch had been; Q was the one who issued the orders, the lynchpin and – of course – the only one that had the right codes to get fully into the system. The rest of his branch could, but only through a very long and convoluted amount of hacking.

“Let my colleagues go, and I’ll give you codes,” Q mumbled, R’s arms a steady presence. Bond watched with tense disbelief, the eight remaining members of Q-branch, five men, three women, all riddled with borrowed tension from their esteemed leader who was beyond their help.

“Bond?”

Bond touched his earpiece, and deftly tugged it out.

There was no point doing a damn thing until the several assailants were not pointing guns in every direction imaginable. The fuckers would shoot first, ask questions later, and their leader was busy in negotiations with M while the second-in-command attempted to terrorise Q and his colleagues into releasing information they would not give.

So, he took life and limb into his hands, and emerged. “Gentlemen,” he said calmly. “I’m here to talk.”


	145. The French Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-mpreg au? Q vanishes and no one can find him, not even his lover 007. A few years later, taking his time returning to MI6 from the South of France, James spots a familiar figure roaming through an outdoor market. What really gets James’ attention is the 5-year-old boy that’s shadowing his missing lover’s steps and who’s eyes match his own. – anon

Bond had never truly recovered from losing Q.

He had tried, so many times, tracked a million leads and continued to see his face almost everywhere, dark hair and green eyes and a smile that could outshine the sun. His lover. The man he had intended to marry, once.

The man who had vanished, leaving no trace, and nobody knew what had happened. Most believed him dead.

Bond tried to forget, and failed.

Southern France, near Perpignan, and Bond had just completed a mission; he was expected back, but couldn’t quite resist a little time just enjoying the atmosphere. France was intensely calm, relaxing in a way he couldn’t quite describe, a world of gentle motion and wine and languid dinners and a language that dreamed of love.

Street markets were a particular joy. Haggling in easy French, vendors who weren’t the Chinese norm of aggressive, but were quietly insistent and willing to accept ideas, engage in conversation, and laugh with relative ease, and Bond could happily sit in cafes with cold drinks or a simple espresso shot and watch the world go by in a way that seemed somehow removed from time.

A child was playing with the light. Bond couldn’t resist looking at him; pale, immensely pale for the climate, dark hair that curled about his face, with an infectious smile and a light laugh. He was a shadow away from somebody Bond had once known, and he shut down the thought before it could truly crystallise. It was too painful to contemplate that; Bond had wanted a family, once. He had never confessed to it, and had hoped that one day, Q would bring up the topic.

The boy turned a little more, and Bond saw eyes like ocean froth, a striking blue with a touch of cold ice, and they were curiously familiar.

They were the eyes Bond could see in the mirror, and that was enough to catch all attention in an instant.

The child ran, and a small hand slid into a larger one, eloquent fingers that fastened easily.

And a smile that could outshine the sun.

Bond felt his heart stop beating.

A handful of Euros thrown onto the table, drink abandoned, and Bond had never moved so fast, lithely darting through the throng of people to wind up within inches, and oh  _god_ , it had been five years and Bond could still paint him from memory, and there was a hint of age but only a small bit, slight darkening around the eyes and the wrinkles a fraction more pronounced when he laughed, but was  _him_ , he was laughing.

“Q,” Bond said simply.

Q turned, and his expression was indescribable. “James,” he returned, so quiet, a breath in a world that seemed to have turned so quiet. “ _James_.”

\---

Ice and water, and Q was drowning, he always drowned in that colour.

Not a line forgotten. Deeper, for some, and webbing out in spider contractions over the warmth of sandy skin, sand and water, hair longer now – Q had always said it would look better longer, and he had been right – and the circles darker now, grief shading in bruises over the hollows of another’s face.

The moment utterly suspended. Q couldn’t find words, and Bond was waiting for them.

“Daddy?”

The almost-spell broke; Q’s smile slid through the haze, adhered to the young form by his side, ducking to the boy’s level. “I need to talk to this man, alright?” Q told his child gently, and  _god_  but his smile, years of smiles painted in those indentations and Bond wanted to  _scream_  at him, or possibly just hold onto him to make sure the idiot was never out of his sight again, body taught as stoicism laced through nerve and muscle.

Q lifted again, body bending to the tune of the child. “A drink, perhaps?” he offered, a true query.

Bond nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak just yet. He followed Q to a quieter café, watched Q converse in easy French – the man had never spoken languages very well, Bond could hear shadows of accents living beneath those words – and the child settled with a tall glass of something pink and bubbly. “Martini?” Q asked, tone uncertain, tentative.

“Not that much has changed,” Bond replied simply, with more gravity than he had originally expected.

The pause, the almost  _flinch_ , was not quite unexpected.

Of all ways to encounter Q, this had not been what Bond expected. He had always imagined some form of understanding, a mutual remembrance of what they had both wanted, both been. The man he had loved, returned to him.

Five  _years_ , and this was not his Q. His Q was a man who loved him so much, and left, had left and not come back and never told him  _why_. “I thought you were dead,” Bond told him simply, as a form of opening gambit, some way of trying to make Q say something, say  _anything_ , and  _fuck_  but his voice hadn’t changed, still precise and delicate, darting motions like the unconscious convulsions of his fingers and no, not that much  _had_  changed, except that time and passed and Bond had lost  _again_.

“I know,” Q returned, horizontal lines curling around a mug that smelled of bergamot and made bile rise briefly in the back of Bond’s throat. “It was the one thing… more than anything else, I think. I didn’t want you to grieve again, and I’m sorry for that.”

So very many years.

“Why?”

Q’s eyes shut off from him; Bond’s hand darted forward, clasping over the fragile, hollow bones of his wrist because god  _damn it_ , he deserved at least for the man to  _look at him_ , when he explained why he had gone, why the  _hell_  he had left.

His eyes flew open again, fixing, half-scared but utterly set.

A small slide, and Q was free again, and the child was looking between them with surprising cognisance. “Is he?” Bond asked, throat shuttering closed, his eyes copied into Q’s skin and devoid of age and lines, bright and young and so beautiful.

“Yes,” Q murmured, with more pride, more utter and tangible love than Bond could remember knowing was  _possible_. “Michael. His name’s Michael. James – he’s ours, yes. He’s ours. Completely, which I didn’t… when I left, I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t. It got very… it got very complicated. I… fuck.”

A moment, and Q crumpled, very slightly.

“Daddy?”

“It’s alright darling,” he told Michael, who looked deeply concerned for a moment, glancing between his parent and a stranger, uncertain and mistrusting. Protective, really, and wasn’t that familiar.

Bond remained quiet, as Q pulled himself together, looked back to Bond. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he confessed softly. A small crumple of expression, and: “I’ve missed you.”

Bond cannot breathe.

\---

“I was abducted.”

Finally, they had it: the crux of the issue, the actual  _reason_ , and Bond looked him up and down and rather transparently didn’t believe a word of it. Q didn’t quite smile, although there was a slight crook in the corner of his mouth that was a heartbeat away. “I was abducted, and then they discovered I was pregnant.”

Further silence. Bond didn’t give him an inch.

“I live my life, I’m relatively free,” he said quietly. “I work for them, though. It’s nothing… it’s nothing major, minor terrorism and thievery for the most part, but I don’t have an option. I would contact MI6, but they’ll kill Michael, and I’m not prepared to risk him.”

Bond was silent, but now in the still way he had which breathed tension and was a little frightening to witness. “Do they watch you here?”

“Once in a while,” Q replied easily, quietly. “It’s not ideal, I’ll definitely grant you that, but I’m alive. We both are. I did what I had to, James, and I’m sorry.”

Bond was still very silent, and Q couldn’t stop glancing at Michael. “Does he know who his… who I am?” Bond asked softly, also glancing at the child; Michael looked straight back, with an intensity that was eerily reminiscent of both of the boy’s parents.

“I can introduce you both properly?” Q suggested. “Michael, darling, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Michael was immediately alert. “Daddy?”

“I…” Q trailed off, was quiet a moment, finding words. “Alright. I promised I’d introduce you to your father, one day. I… James, this is Michael. Michael, this is your… your dad, I suppose. God.”

The boy looked at Bond with general curiosity, glancing him over in a way that just made Bond grin; he was Q, through and through, Q’s way of looking as though he could dissect the universe, assessing and accepting and dismissing in a handful of glances, and Bond couldn’t quite believe that the child was his eyes was truly  _his_.

“It’s good to meet you,” Bond said honestly, with no true idea of what on earth to do, how to begin the entire conversation. “Hi, Michael.”

“Hi.”

A shy smile, and back to his drink, to his parent, to the book Q had slid in his direction.

A son. He had a  _son_.

He had Q.

Five  _years_.

So much to take in. Too much, quite frankly.

“I’d… I’d like to take you home, if you wouldn’t mind,” Q said softly. “Nobody’s coming to check up for a day or two, I don’t think, I’m up to date with everything they need at the moment…”

“What happens if they find out?”

Q glanced at Michael, shrugged slightly, smiled a very little, very sadly. “I won’t risk him.”

Bond just watched him. “Let me take you away,” he tried; Q opened his mouth to object, and Bond just kept talking. “I’m not letting you go now, I’ve waited five  _fucking_ years to find you, and you have a son. He’s mine too, Q. I never got the choice, but I have it now, and I want to know him. I can get you both out, you know I can do it.”

“You…”

“Please,” Bond tried, voice so desperately gentle. “Please.”

\---

Of course, when everything went to hell, it happened with terrifying speed.

“I  _told you_  I wouldn’t risk him,” Q bellowed, lividly angry, his son clutched to his chest and head buried in Q’s shoulder as Bond floored the accelerator. “You  _had_  to get involved, didn’t you? You couldn’t leave me to…”  
“You’re a fucking  _hostage_ , and you have  _my child_  with you,” Bond bellowed back.

Michael cringed further into Q’s front, Q trying to hush him with increasing fervour. “I’m going to kill you,” he promised his once-lover, grip tightening painful on his son as Bond whipped them around a corner.

“ _Get down_.”

Q was very used to Bond’s abrupt orders. Even five years later, he still dreamt – once in a while, when he let himself forget and his mind would wander – of Bond’s sharp commands and voice, of how he would make Q’s blood pump through his veins like electricity in live wires, and of missions with Bond’s growl and Q’s crisp sarcasm.

Only then, Q hadn’t needed to concentrate on protecting the one thing in his life he could never, never bear to lose. Bond, he had survived losing. Q would not,  _could_  not, survive losing his son.

Gunshots rattled overhead with impressive force, and Michael was getting frightened, Q could feel it. “Bond, are we done?!” Q snapped; Bond glanced down, and handed Q a gun. “I’m not…”

“I can’t do this solo,” Bond snapped, popped back up, kept on shooting.

Michael looked between the gun and his father, mouth wide. “Daddy…”

“Stay quiet, and cover your ears up for me,” Q told him firmly; Michael mutely did as instructed, and Q stood.

It was like a homecoming.

Q had forgotten how it felt, being an active agent. Blood and adrenaline and life, and the smell of smoke and the hysterical speed, anger and terror conspiring, and watching blood arch from another’s arteries and having the sure knowledge of one’s own mortality against the frailty of everybody else.

One crept around the side of the car, at which point it became painfully obvious that they were  _only_  after Michael.

Q shot him without hesitation. Michael screamed. Bond was utterly concentrated but Q couldn’t be, not quite; he found his body curving to form a physical barrier, fear making him sloppy.

A bullet hit him straight in the abdomen.

Michael screamed.

Bond noticed, and his jaw set; he didn’t panic, naturally, but there was a slight tension that Q couldn’t fail to notice. “Hang on,” he said sharply to Q, and continued shooting.

Q just waited, bled out, Michael panicked, Q shot another one he could see.

Oh god, he had never wanted Michael to see this kind of world. He would have given anything,  _everything_ , to keep Michael safe from all this. “You bastard, James,” he muttered at Bond – who seemed to have stopped shooting, which boded well – just as his vision blackened, and he passed out.

\---

Q woke up pissed off, and in hospital.

“Q?”

“I hate you,” Q mumbled, blinking distractedly; he could recognise Bond’s voice anywhere, the edge of mocking humour and the almost-pretence that he had had everything entirely under control all the while and this had been a necessary part of the plan, and he was sorry but not overly repentant.

This,  _this_  he did not miss about active duty. Or Bond, as it happened.

“Where’s Michael?” Q asked. Bond was silent for a little bit too long for comfort. “ _Where the fuck is my son?!”_

“Q, calm down,” Bond interjected, having only been silent for about a half-second. “He’s outside with Eve, she  _adores_  him by the way, has been unapologetically doting… you’ve been out for a little while, lost a fair amount of blood and a kidney.”

Q made a disgruntled face: “Damn, I was fond of that kidney,” he griped. “I’m assuming I’m mostly fine?”

“You’ll make a disconcertingly quick recovery, I’m certain, and return to your conventionally obnoxious self,” Bond conceded, his smile startling genuine.

They remained caught in stasis for a moment.

Oh  _god_ , it was James. His beautiful and bright and brilliant James Bond, obnoxious bastard and moron and aggravating beyond measure, but  _his_. It had been such a long few years, longer than Q could have begun to realise, losing everything he had loved.

Michael was worth it. Always.

“So,” Q mused, after a moment. “MI6 know I’m alive. Know I’m back. I’m assuming they want me for n number of tedious meetings? I told you, I won’t let Michael be drawn into this – and I no longer have the option of going home. All his things, all mine, are now lost to a probably terrified French housekeeper whose going to think all sorts of awful things. Michael… fuck, James, this isn’t fair on him.”

Bond smiled very slightly. “He seems to like it here so far,” he said simply, keeping the plea out of his tone as best he could. “He’s wonderful. Michael. He’s wonderful.”

Q’s smile was small but bright, content. “Yes,” he agreed.

“Q. I would like to be involved in his life. Even if in passing. Christ, you shouldn’t have to do this on your own, and he… he’s my son too. Please. We can keep him from MI6, I’ll  _leave_  MI6 if I have to… fuck, Q, why didn’t you just  _talk to me_? We could have… this could have been dealt with a long time ago…”

“I have a kidney missing, along with most of my temper,” Q told him drily. “Stop talking. I’ll think about it. Previous arguments are probably now moot given that I’m going to be bedridden and in the UK for a while… fuck. Go away, let me sleep. I want to see Michael when I wake up.”

Bond nodded, visibly saddened, turning to go.

“James?”

Bond turned back slowly, eyebrow raised, an almost perfect copy of what he was pretending to be.

“Kiss me?”

It took no further convincing; Bond leant in, pressed a gentle kiss to Q’s lips. “I missed you more than you will ever know,” he said, with frank honesty, and vanished.


	146. The Batman Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman!AU where Bond is Batman, Eve is Robin (because fuck yeah Eve Moneypenny!), M (first female, then Mallory) as the commissioner, and then Q as the awesome/sassy combo of Bond’s butler (answering the door and sighing dramatically, ” Mr. Bond’s not here, he’s sleeping with a girl somewhere, would you like to leave your business card?”) + tech guy + childhood friend whose father worked with Bond’s family + eventual love interest. :D Please? (Also you are both awesome! <3 ) – anon

Q raised an eyebrow, expression incredibly unimpressed. “Mr Bond is absent,” he drawled, and essentially shut the door without a further word.

A moment to breathe in elaborately, dramatically, and he headed towards the Bat Cave.

Eve was settled on a rock outcropping, legs swinging, looking remarkably bored. “Hey,” she said brightly, upon seeing Q. “Wow. You look miserable.”

Q just shook his head slightly, heading towards his computer. He loved his computer – always had – and was, naturally, the driving force behind a good proportion of Bond, or Batman’s, weaponry. Eve’s too, which was actually a lot more fun. Hers tended to be a little less ostentatious.

Of course, Bond chose that moment to crash through the doors with the literal force of a several-tonne truck; the Batmobile ricocheted off the far wall, and neither Eve nor Q even blinked at the mass devastation it left in its wake.

Bond ambled out, looking none the worse for wear. “That,” Q pointed out, still looking at his screens, “means several hours more work for me. I want a pay rise, and I want a new computer.”

“Fair enough,” Bond acceded easily, and strode towards them.

Q was a little bored of the posturing. Both of them were. Eve and Q exchanged somewhat irreverent glances; Bond’s pretentions were becoming outright hilarious. “Please?” Eve asked, in a low breath, looking rather excited.

“You’re a terrible influence,” Q told her firmly, before his face split into a grin.

From the ceiling, a pair of large birds flew; they essentially  _dive-bombed_  Bond, who let out a warrior cry and ducked dramatically out of the way, ducking and rolling, before realising that Q and Eve were pissing themselves laughing. “ _Not funny_.”

Eve was still giggling. “I beg to differ,” she contradicted, as Q snorted inelegantly. “James, you’re getting ridiculous now.”

“Sir, your fourteenth conquest of the last month wished to see you,” Q told him, voice dry as a desert in summer. “I informed her that you were otherwise engaged. Please _deal with her_ , she keeps showing up, and I am running out of excuses, or indeed will to try.”

Bond, to his credit, did manage to look mildly shamed. “Noted,” he said, with a touch of playing lightness that Q tried – and failed – to entirely ignore. “Now. Anything new for me?”

“No, sir.”

“Will you  _ever_  call me James?”

Q glanced at him quickly, looked him up and down.

Eve just watched with undisguised amusement; the pair operated like this, danced around one another and pretended they didn’t care when it was patently obvious that they did. “Unlikely,” Q told Bond brightly, and returned attention to his computer.

\---

The alarm.

Q looked to his watch, custom made and linked up to his employer’s. He dropped the washing up – carefully – and shifted into the study, keying in his code as he moved, the wall already open by the time he reached it.

Something was damn well wrong, and it only took a cursory look at Bond’s vitals to establish quite what.

"Shit.”

The car pulled up as Q reached the ground floor level, swerving in an elegant arc, Eve’s trademark; Bond was a fast driver, but he was careful with his baby, and Eve was far less religious.

Bond wasn’t driving.

Q ran, he was never one for such physical exertion, but by the time he got to the door, Eve was hauling Bond out, covered in blood. Whether her own or his, Q couldn’t tell. He took the man’s other arm and the pair half dragged, half carried him over to the table.

“Evening starshine,” Bond commented to him, a little foggily.

Q snarled slightly, hoisting Bond onto a stretcher with Eve’s assistance and Bond’s stubbornness. “What in  _god’s name_  have you been doing?” he asked angrily, moving to prepare the medical equipment. “Eve?”

“Two-face,” Eve stated simply, not bothering to explain. Q couldn’t allow himself the time to be horrified. The man with half a face, sadistic humour, and frightening intelligence

"Q?" Bond groaned, trying to breath.

"I’m here James," Q told him, whirling about as Eve started to compress the wounds. "I’m here."

Bond’s face broke into what would have been a rather charming flirtatious grin, had it not been for the blood. “James?” Bond croaked. “You  _never_  call me James. Must be bad.”

“That would just about cover this, yes. Not your most auspicious hour,” Q returned, the edge a little muted in his panic. “Honestly Bond, you cannot expect me to keep equipping you with rather expensive and rather clever gadgets if you’re going to trash every single one of them…”

Bond lifted a hand, and his fist opened over Q’s favourite little device: a bat-shaped remote hacking device, one that could be used on almost any computer and was Q’s proudest invention. “Not every  _single_  one,” he mumbled, and passed out.


	147. The Mute!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because I am a raving masochist: James finds Q after he has been kidnapped and tortured. It takes him a few days to realise that he has been tortured into silence (whenever he talks/whimpers/moans/coughs, he was hurt). Cue Bond trying to help his lover become verbal again. (bonus cookie and tadpole that my class are raising if Q makes an unintentional noise around Bond and flinches/has a silent panic attack - or save it for further ficlets - because I need to cry out my feelings/eyes badly) xx – placeofold

Q was curled into the further corner of the room, body vibrating, hands bound in front of him and entire body tucked into the smallest space he could manage, almost invisible; Bond couldn’t see him at first, no sign of a sleeping form, before clarifying on the wide-eyed and utterly terrified creature cringing as far away as he could.

The moment he saw Bond, Q’s entire body drained of tension, unfurling slightly to get a better look and confirm, somehow, through myopic distortion that it really was true, that Bond had come for him.

Bond’s hand gently covered his, a steady contact, and Q breathed in abruptly.

The snatch of air aggravated something; he coughed wetly, trying to breathe again, and was abruptly hyperventilating and flailing, trying to cringe as far into himself as he could go, compressing himself despite existing hurts, so many hurts, with his mouth in a mimicry of pleas, of cries, as he began to frantically sob in absolute silence, hitching in breath, every noise his panic caused making everything worse, body cracking inwards and inwards and unable to breathe, heartbeat a frantic hummingbird, before an open-mouthed and frantic sob of inescapable pain slid through his broken lips, and he screamed out a plea before passing out completely.

It was, perhaps, one of the most horrifying things Bond had ever witnessed.

-

Very quickly, it became evident that Q would not – could not – speak. He couldn’t make any sounds at all, actually.  Even the slightest of sounds, however involuntary, set off a cascade of terrors that invariably escalated, Q’s hysteria causing ever moresound as he sobbed and hitched breath and spiralled further and further, until his body eventually gave out or one of the doctors managed to drug him.

“Q, nobody’s going to hurt you,” Bond told him gently, with Q propped up in bed. He looked surprisingly calm, only with a deadness behind his eyes; Bond wondered, distantly, if Q could begin to communicate. If he would ever even try. As it was, nobody knew how to manage his pain levels or hunger, thirst, without taking manual readings; when Q’s heart began to beat too-quickly, skin draining of colour, expression crinkling into something he couldn’t escape.

Unsurprisingly, Q just watched him. He smiled slightly, hand extended, Bond’s warmth seeping into his palm. He seemed curiously unperturbed by any form of physical contact; he seemed to trust Bond implicitly, letting the agent try to gauge what to do, climbing into the hospital bed at one stage to cocoon his lover in strong arms, and mopped away his tears with broad fingers when Q’s body shook and tears dampened, the only indicator that he had started to quietly cry.

Bond held onto him, and gave Q time. They could work on speech soon, on sound soon.

For now, he held on, and tried to make Q understand that he was safe.

\---

It was inspiring, in a curious way, watching the development. From the most stilted and uncomfortable of starts, something was beginning, creeping by increments; Bond watched with disbelief, unable to understand how Q was managing it.

Honestly, Bond had needed to accept that Q may never recover. That his voice, the voice that Bond had always loved and would always adore, round and warm and perfect and crisp and sharp and edged and fuck, it was  _him_ , him incarnate, that would be gone. Like Q losing his fingers, there was a horror Bond could barely grasp that came with Q losing his words.

Communication came in fragments, in fits and starts. Q had learnt to smile, if only a little, to squeeze Bond’s hand with pitiful fingers when he needed help, when he needed arms around him just to confirm that there was somebody there and nothing was hurting.

“Tea?” Bond asked absentmindedly, waiting for the answering nod.

He expected the conventional nod, maybe a tightening of the fingers, maybe _something_. It was a fifty-fifty chance. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn’t.

Today was a bad day; Q looked at him, eyes shining and expression constricted into naked  _hatred_ , a raw loathing of what he had become and the simple fact that he _couldn’t change it_. That no matter how hard he tried, what he did, bile started to rise at the back of his throat the moment words or any expression tried to happen, and he couldn’t, he  _couldn’t_ , he couldn’t,  _please_.

Bond’s hand ran through Q’s hair, cradling him close, careful and gentle. “It’s okay,” he murmured, soft and calm. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Q wrenched himself away, and moved into the bedroom.

Bond heard a scream, crashes.

He opened the door, and Q flinched violently, body bracing for defence, for attack, a shattered glass at the foot of a wall, water over the paint, dripping in long lines.

They stood there a moment, an impasse.

“I like to smash plates, usually,” Bond told him impassively, as tears tracked silently over Q’s cheeks. “All of mine’s disposable, for precisely that reason.”

Q didn’t respond.

Bond extended his hand, and Q’s fell into it easily, and they found themselves in the kitchen with Bond holding a plate.

Q watched him, handed over a plate. “It’s for you,” Bond said, with a slight laugh, smiling.

Nothing. Q remained utterly still, silent, plate extended.

Abruptly, Bond understood: Q couldn’t make sound, so he used a proxy. He was using Bond to make noise for him.

Bond threw the plate at the floor.

Q gasped slightly, and smiled. A full smile, the type to light up his face, looking with sheer joy over the shards of crockery.

Another. Another. Another.

Q joined in.

They ran out of plates, moved onto bowls, moved onto glasses, moved onto  _everything_.

Exhausted, Q just hugged him. He didn’t say a word, but just held on for dear life.


	148. The Demon!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DemonQ! James has to deal with it, demonQ knows everything about Bond’s pass, also demonQ harm Q’s body – anon

Q’s eyes were a bright, sharp, ferocious shade of red.

“Q?” Bond asked softly, carefully, honestly at a loss for what in the hell to do, when his lover and partner of nearly three years had turned chalk white, green mutated, everything of him visibly, tangibly lost, motion taking on a shifting, developing cruelty that didn’t suit him in the slightest.

A small, angled smile. “Oh, Mr Bond,” he murmured, voice lower, hissing vaguely. “This is new. This is interesting.”

Bond could only input the information as presented, and try to make sense of it: “Where’s Q?” he asked, neutral, an encroaching edge he couldn’t help.

The red abated for a moment, green reinstating. “James?” Q asked, abruptly soundinghimself, and sounding nakedly frightening. “James, I don’t…”

A moment of frozen shock, Q’s body freezing completely, eyes wide and mouth open, suspended in stasis as he tried to compute the sensations, body rigid for a full five seconds before he violently contracted with a shocked, horrified scream, the type Bond had heard too many times, and he couldn’t, he couldn’t, hear on Q.

“Q.”

Bond moved forward; Q’s body snapped upright, and the red was back and waseverything, no echo of the pain that had riddled him an instant before. “I can hurt him without needing a body,” the demon promised, hissed, and Bond had no idea what the hell to do. A moment of contemplation, and the thing smiled, not quite Q’s smile. “He’s screaming in here. Calls for you, for you to save him. He doesn’t know what you are, does he?”

“What do you want?” he asked levelly instead, brain hurting with the effort of marrying this thing that was Q, it was his Q, a sidestep from the person Bond had woken with for so many days, weeks, months. The Q who he had heard in agony, against his Q standing, without it being him. It didn’t make sense.

The creature grinned.

“I don’t want anything.”

Q’s body crumpled; he slid into himself with a sharp sob, and Bond moved closer, reaching out to lift Q’s chin and find the green again, Q’s green. “Help me,” he whispered, the gaze shifted from frightened to absolutely terrified. “Please, James…”

Red.

Bond moved back faster than he had known himself capable of; Q straightened, head cocked to one side, looking fascinated by the response. “Fragile things, human bodies,” it mused. “You break, so easily. I could destroy so many facets of this little shell. Your little Q, left stranded.”

There was nothing more terrifying in the world than dealing with a creature who didn’t want anything. It existed to hurt, and was succeeding, and Bond didn’t know what to do. “Run, James Bond,” it told him simply. “I have things to do. Worlds to explore.”

Help me.

Somewhere, there had to be help. Somebody who could deal with this.

The demon smiled, and Bond ran.

\---

There were no clues. Nobody knew what to do. Apart from anything else, being ‘possessed’ went into the category of Supernatural Things That Only Happen On Television, which meant a fair amount of Bond explaining and getting very irritated with the entire affair before anybody would deign to listen.

Meanwhile, Q – or whatever Q had become – was busy. Breaking things, hurting things. Tapping into Q’s knowledge base and using it without apology, and there was no sign of Bond’s Q.

M despised the necessity of his eventual orders: Q needed to be taken out.

Bond’s expression froze into a livid rictus.

The problem was that nobody knew what to do with something that should never have existed in the first place. It was outside anybody, everybody’s, realm of experience; to deal with Q meant accepting the issue as it stood, which nobody could, and then trying to find ways to fix it.

“I can ask Trevelyan,” M suggested. “If you…”

“If Q is going to die, I’m damn well not going to let somebody else cock it up,” Bond returned instantly, with more anger than he knew he could feel, more anger than he had felt since he had seen Vesper with a briefcase and understood, and the anger had been everything for a while. “I’ll do it, but I’m resigning.”

M nodded once, very simply. There was little else to say.

Bond walked away.

-

Q was trapped.

He could hurt, he could feel, he could  _see_ , and he couldn’t make himself heard. Trapped in the realms of a body that was no longer his own, and the malice ate into his brain and turned everything around, nothing made sense, and he needed Bond because this was too alien and too painful, now, to adequately deal with  _get me out, please, get me out_  and Q knew what MI6 would do.

He was a liability.

He would die.

The demon laughed, a cold and awful thing, and Q felt pain shudder through everything.

_I don’t want to die_.


	149. The Phantom of the Opera Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I love your writing. I was wondering if either of you could do a phantom of the opera 00Q? Shipimpala’s gifset was absolutely incredible, and now I desperately need this fic-ed. Just whenever you get around to it! Thanks so much! –keep-calm-and-trek-on

Q typed out strings of code, eyebrows furrowing slightly, glancing over the screens with fascinated interest; he had been upgraded to Quartermaster abruptly, after the melodramatic, aging predecessor had been outmatched in a showdown of spectacular proportions. He loved his job; he was good, and knew it, these days.

The presence lived in the back of his screens, a hovering concept clever boy who knew him, knew him better than anybody. Knew every facet of his coding, was a true technological genius, had taught Q everything he knew.

"Q?"

"What?" he asked, looking up abruptly from his screen; Q-branch was alive with glowing screens, no other light sources. The three others seemed to have – like Q – completely failed to notice that the entire room was otherwise in darkness.

"You’ll wreck your eyes," the newcomer commented.

Q blinked, smirk stretching across his face. “Hello, James. When did you get back in the country?”

"About three hours ago," Bond told him, flicking on the light switch to flood the room in an artificial glow; the minions whimpered, shielding their eyes and batting away light as though tackling invisible demons. "Good to know you’re on the ball."

"Your mission was finished, I wasn’t aware I had to babysit you in the UK as well?" Q replied, absentmindedly glancing at his screen.

"Fair enough," Bond chuckled, moving to lean against Q’s desk. "What are you working on?"

"So not here to return your equipment then? What manner of beast devoured my hardware this time?" Q inquired, shutting down a few windows.

Bond smiled flippantly. “No beasts; just the ocean,” he teased.

"You were in Austria. It’s bloody landlocked."

"I’m talented," Bond replied mildly. "You seem stressed."

Q smiled at him, glancing him over. “A little,” he admitted. “You look surprisingly good, actually.”

Bond’s smile moved into a wide grin. “Flirting, Quartermaster?” he asked; Q shook his head, flushing a very little. “Dinner. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

"Bond…"

Bond was already heading to the door, calling eight! over his shoulder again, before disappearing.

Q rolled his eyes in amused exasperation, turning back to his computer.

_Your office, clever boy._

Q’s expression froze a little; he glanced over to the closed office door, wondering what was waiting for him. “Hold the fort,” he told R, with a grin, sliding in and shutting the door behind him.

The office was, ostensibly, empty.

As Q watched, his filing cabinet literally moved, shifted forward and revealed a passage behind, reminiscent of some twentieth-century spy thriller.

A man emerged, blonde hair falling almost to his shoulders, a mask holding a misshapen jawline in place, eyes sharp behind the holes that covered most of his face.

_Hello_.

\---

Q took the being’s hand, and let himself be moved into the dark corners of MI6, into corridors he had never seen, niches he had never known existed. “My god,” he murmured, as the man in the mask smiled very slightly. “Who are you?!”

The man took him into a large niche, a room, computers and wires and an entire technological world living in the bowels of MI6. “I am Raoul Silva,” the man told him calmly, and moved around the room with easy confidence. “This is my home. My place, hmm? What do you think?”

Q shook his head slightly, utterly disbelieving. “This is  _impossible_ , and you’ve also probably been the person single-handedly  _destroying_  my budget, I’ve been looking for the drain for  _weeks_  and… I don’t understand. You’ve been… you’re RS. My RS. The ghost in the mechanism.”

“Your teacher,” the man grinned, light and laughing. “Taught you everything, I believe.”

“Not everything.”

Silva nodded his head, a gentle concession. “You have outgrown in some regards, but believe me, querido, you’re still fallible. You are not exceptional yet.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

Silva’s expression was delirious. “Yes,” he murmured, eyes glinting as he all but devoured Q, lips slightly parted, unable to stop simply  _looking_  at him. “My clever boy. Such a clever boy.”

It was only on closer examination that everything seemed wrong.

Q could see his own face  _everywhere._  Images, programming devices, everything. Absolutely everything. All his work in blueprints and lines of text, a shrine to his own brilliance and everything Silva had taught him; it was  _terrifying_.

Q retched.

Silva’s hands were on him, and he flinched back. “Fuck, the  _fuck_  is this?!”

A slight pinprick, and he passed out.


	150. The Widowed!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q’s a widowed omega that already has a daughter. Most alphas who seem interested in him are immediately turned off the moment they find out Q’s already had children. In fact, it happened so often that Q now uses it to get alphas to leave him alone. A tactic that backfires when James starts expressing an interest in courting him. – anon

Q rolled his shoulders slightly, jaw set, breathing out slowly and with much control as he could muster. “Bond, what do you want?”

Bond moved further into the office, and gently shut the door. Q was palpably tense, refusing to look around. “I would like to ask you out for a drink,” Bond smiled, keeping his tone light, non-confrontational.

Q twisted around, looking closer, eyes sharp and dangerous. “Why?”

“Because I like you,” Bond told him quietly. “Is that problematic?”

“I have a daughter.”

The sentence was thrown out as a challenge, a final statement that would end the conversation altogether and – presumably – was expected to send Bond running for the hills.

Instead: “Fantastic. How old is she?”

Q blinked.

“Erm… four, actually,” he told Bond, with a note of suspicion. “I’m widowed as well, you realise?”

Bond just held up his right hand, revealing the wedding ring that he kept on the opposite hand now, a memory. “That makes two of us,” he returned quietly. “I understand, if you don’t want to. But I like you, Q, and judging by your reaction I’m reckoning I would be one of a very few who would understand what it’s like to be alone.”

For a long few moments, Q was silent.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked slowly.

Bond smiled, reached out a hand for Q’s; Q placed his in Bond’s with notable hesitancy, still betraying a touch of simple suspicion. “Yes,” he told Q, firmly. “And I would love to meet your daughter at some stage, if you’ll let me. I bet she’s beautiful.”

Q grinned. “She is,” he said, with the naked pride of a parent. “Absolutely beautiful. Thank you, James, by the way.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Nothing to thank me for,” he told his Quartermaster simply, kissed his hand, and left the office.

\---

Ellie was absolutely  _beautifully_.

Quite frankly, Bond adored her. He probably doted on her more than Q did; he took one look at the wide-eyed, pale-skinned bundle of life, and decided she was the absolute most wonderful creature in the universe to date.

Even the fact that she was tangibly somebody else’s, that she was a strange blend of Q and an alpha he had never known, never met, smelt wrong and somehow unpleasant, alien, and the want to make Q somehow  _his_  was never more intense then when there was a child there who was  _evidence_  of another alpha.

“Hi,” she said, waving happily at Bond. “James?”

“James,” Bond confirmed, ruffling her hair and making her squeal in absolute panic. “Hiya Ellie. I’ve got a surprise…”

“… James, have you…”

Bond proffered chocolate, and Ellie  _shrieked_. “You’re going to make my daughter diabetic,” Q laughed, snagging the chocolates off him; Ellie looked up with true devastation, eyes already tearing.

“Q, give her the chocolate.”

“ _Please daddy_ ,” she snuffled. “James got me  _chocolate_.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

Bond grabbed Q by the scruff of the neck, disarmed him easily enough, and handed the chocolates back over to Ellie; she gave a squeak of joy, and darted off back to her room with all the excitement she was humanly capable of.

“Bond,  _put me down_ ,” Q growled; Bond did as ordered, only to have Q near enough punch him in the face, before assaulting his mouth with great aplomb.

It had to be said, Bond was somewhat alarmed. “Q…”

“You knew that was coming,” Q snapped, and sighed, holding onto Bond tightly and breathing him in, so wonderfully entranced by it all. “ _Fuck_. Bond, I just hate you sometimes, you know.”

“I hate you too,” Bond laughed, and kissed him back.

From the doorway, it was impossible to not hear a strangled giggle. “Ellie, you get in here _right now_.”

Ellie appeared, grinning. “Knew it,” she crowed, and stuck her tongue out.

“Bed. You’re grounded. You do  _not_  talk to me like that, do you understand?”

“ _Daddy_.”

“ _Now_.”

Ellie sulked, flounced and disappeared. “That was to you, Mr Bond,” Q told him, with a slight growl to her voice, and sent him upstairs along with his chastised young daughter.


	151. The Lights Go Out Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a prompt for you, whenever you feel like getting round to it :) bond and Q are in his office late at night (you choose why) then, suddenly, the power goes out! *whispers* there’s someone in the building….** no fluff please, maybe angst? Idk, preferably horror/scary – anon

Q wearily handed the equipment over, letting out a slight sigh; he had liked Bond’s new gun, it had been something of a labour of love, and to know it would entirely destroyed in the space of a handful of days was exceptionally demoralising.

“… and this will need recalibrating once you’ve…”

The lights died.

For a long moment, both of them were extremely still. “Q…”

Q hushed him harshly, body a study in tension. “There’s somebody in Q-branch,” he murmured, voice extremely low. “That’s the trip-switch, if somebody’s hacked through the doors.”

Bond’s fingers tightened around his new pistol, breathing regulating easily as he considered the basic facts, how to approach the adapting situation. Nobody visible. “No target,” Bond murmured, as Q moved behind his desk, retrieving a gun of his own.

The darkness was absolute. Q-branch was underground, entirely run on artificial life; the place was tomb-like now, an airtight coffin as the place went into lockdown, an automatic response to the power outage. “Bond?” Q breathed. “The alarm should have gone out above ground, but we don’t have night vision, and if we turn anything battery powered on we’ll be immediately obvious.”

Bond, thus, did what he could. He knew Q’s office well enough to have some rough orientation; he brushed Q’s hand – the Quartermaster letting out a stifled yelp of shock – before pulling him down behind the desk. “Stay here,” he said curtly. “I can’t guarantee your safety right now. You stay, and I’ll do what I can.”

“Don’t be a moron, don’t be noble, and don’t be patronising,” Q returned, as confidently as he was able, keeping his gun clutched to his chest and aware of havingno vision. It was like being blinded; even the afterglow had faded, and the hermetically sealed absurdity of Q-branch allowed no true scope for adjustment. “You won’t be able to make this better, you can’t. Stay with me.”

“Q…”

“I’m your superior officer. Stay here.”

“Q.”

A footstep.

The pair were instantly silent.

“I only want the Quartermaster.”

Utter silence.

Bond’s fingers squeezed Q’s. A warning.

“I will not ask again.”

The quiet was desperate.

It stretched, to infinite lengths.

Q screamed, as a hand wrenched at his shoulder.

\---

Q fell, and there were – abruptly – gunshots.

The noise was spectacular, and Q could see nothing, especially given that his glasses had skittered away and the brief lightning-flashes were not enough to illuminate fully, and Q really thought it best to not ask questions just yet.

Being caught in a firefight is a very curious experience. Speed and event become somewhat disjointed; it is both desperately quick and excruciatingly slow, the moments of responses and instinct and understanding, adrenaline firing synapses to a million miles an hour, and Q held onto his own Glock and felt something against his skull.

Honestly, he had no idea what had happened, who had grabbed him, where he was. He knew there was a touch, and he felt a gloved hand sharply close over his mouth, a sharp stab into the side of his neck  _fucking hate needles_  and everything started swimming.

Oh fuck, it was dark.

There was a spark of light that rose and fell and was blurred into a myopic halo, and voices seemed to be moving bizarrely slowly and weren’t syncing with the lips, and then there was utter darkness, utter and complete darkness.

Hands continued to try and paw at him, and Q remembered that he couldn’t be there. He couldn’t be. This was  _wrong_ , and he needed to be returned to the custody of one James Bond who, with some luck, would imminently dispatch the men who wanted him.

Q rolled away. Simply rolled.

Pain stabbed and sliced and was everywhere at once, and he sucked in an almost-silent breath and shivered violently and had no idea which way he was facing because there was darkness on all sides and flatness on two sides of his body, and his chest was being compressed by something heavy and he couldn’t  _fucking_  see.

Words simply wouldn’t come. He remained very still, very aware that his feet were extremely cold and not aware of very much beyond that. It had definitely occurred that it wasn’t very  _useful_  to be aware of nothing else.

It was still dark.

It occurred, vaguely, that he might be dead.

Q could no longer feel his fingers.

His chest felt very hot and very wet.

Quiet.


	152. The Tanner/Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if this is the right place to submit requests? But anyway could you do a Bill/Q fic please? :) <33 – bryonywhishaw

In some regards, it made a hell of a lot of sense. Nobody had seen it coming, but then, two of the most private people in MI6 were more than merely adept at keeping their fledgling relationship out of public scope.

It began quietly, somewhat unsurprisingly. Tanner spent a decent proportion of his time in Q-branch, given his role; Chief of Staff often meant monitoring missions and communicating important developments to M. He was the communications hub, one of the truly vital facets of MI6 running.

Nowhere had better surveillance, or monitoring, than Q-branch.

Q smiled eloquently, once in a while, as they began to know one another. Tanner was one of a very select few who had accessed Q’s file, and Q naturally knew his. The information shared was certainly a conversation starter in their quieter moments, and otherwise lingered between them as a form of general solidarity. Two invaluable men who barely existed.

Tanner could make tea.

Honestly, that was the tipping point. It was such a small thing, almost irrelevant in some regards, but proved to be a moment of immediate connection.

Q made the first move, to both of their surprise. Tanner agreed without undue argument, and between them, they were able to get a reservation at a very good restaurant with a several-week waiting list for that evening.

They exchanged thoughts and drinks and ideas, and it was surprisingly welcome.

A little of it was basic secret-keeping. In a world of far too much secrecy, it was a tremendous relief to find a point of contact. They knew everything anyway; the responses, the pain, the quiet was shared a little for once.

Nobody needed to know but M, and so nobody did.

It was enough to exchange glances, smiles, words. And, of course, have somewhere to go home to.

\---

Nobody knew for a surprisingly long time.

Over a year, in fact.

True, they were agents for the Secret Service, which meant keeping a simple little thing like a long-term relationship out of the way of prying eyes was actually very easy. Both were immensely private people as it was, and didn’t exactly see the need to snog one another senseless at a Christmas party to illustrate that they were happy together.

As far as most were concerned, they were friends.

“… why do you have  _coffee_  in here?” a minion blinked, in absolute shock.

Q glanced over at the coffee, at the minion. “I have friends,” he said, a little bit petulantly. “They like coffee.”

“I thought the smell…”

“One gets accustomed to it,” Q returned simply, and shooed the girl before any questions could be asked.

-

“You  _hate_  coffee. The smell, the taste, the general aura of a room when coffee granules have been released. It makes you actively nauseous. You would ban all but your _closest_  accomplices from having any. Ergo, a relationship. A  _close_  relationship. A  _long-term_  relationship. How have I missed this previously?”

It was accidental, cosmic irony, and simply  _unfair_  that Tanner happened to walk in at that precise moment. “Sherlock, don’t…”

“ _Him_?!” Sherlock asked, loudly.

Q-branch literally stopped. Pretty much every person, in unison, paused – because it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Q and Tanner. It  _couldn’t be_.

And yet: of course it could. It made sense. Of all people.

“Bill, Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Bill Tanner. My partner. Thank you for noticing  _in front of_  various staff members. Greatly appreciated.”

Sherlock barely had a sense that he’d done something Not Good, but then, Sherlock almost never did. “Congratulations!” minions chirped, and Q let out a slight sigh.

“There goes that,” Bill told him, with intentional lightness, sliding a hand into Q’s. “It’s fine, Q. Honestly. It’s fine. They would have found out eventually.”

Q just raised an eyebrow slightly. “Sherlock, I’m going to kill you,” he said frankly.

Sherlock nodded. “I ascertained that much. I am happy for you.”

Q rolled his eyes, and pulled Bill into his office, closing the door behind them.


	153. The Primary School Wedding Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff please? Q comes home from primary school with a ring on his finger and tells his mom he got married and that he and James are husband and husband now. Bonus if his mom just takes it in stride. – runemarks

“Mummy. Mummy.”

Elizabeth took a patient breath, and glanced down at her son. Q was the light of her life, but he was at the kind of age when he could be relatively annoying when pestering. “Yes, my darling?” she asked, glancing in the rearview mirror to look at Q.

Q grinned, and held his hand up, to show a gummy ring around his finger. “I’m married,” he said happily.

“To whom?” Elizabeth asked, smiling herself; Q seemed ridiculously excited, and she couldn’t really bring herself to burst his bubble.

Q seemed to grow about three inches. “James.”

It was a long way from surprising. Q was absolutely besotted with James, a boy a couple of years older than him, who had taken her son under his wing quite a while back. Monique – James’s mother – was a lovely woman, and Elizabeth had grown quite close to her as their sons became ever better friends.

“That’s fantastic, darling,” she told him, as Q squeaked delightedly. “We’ll have to get James and Monique around to celebrate, hmm? Maybe I can even find you celebratory cake.”

“Cake,” Q repeated, with a wide-eyed wonder. “I get cake?!”

Elizabeth laughed. “You had some at Matt and Sarah’s wedding, didn’t you?”

A small, stunned nod. “’mazing,” he murmured. “Can James have cake too? Cos he’s my husband now.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth agreed, expression a little more serious, gaze consistently flicking up to her son in the back seat. “And I think we need to find you a better ring. That one will get munched soon.”

Q’s eyes widened. “I don’t want to munch my ring,” he said, sounding utterly devastated. “It’s my wedding ring.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said practically, “I think we can find you, and James, nice rings that nothing will happen to. Then you can be married forever.”

“And always?”

It was impossible to not smile. “And always,” she agreed, and prepared to call Monique over for dinner, to celebrate the unofficial wedding of both of their sons.

After all, the only surprise was that it had taken the two boys so long.

\---

“Mummy?  _Mummy_ , this is important.”

Elizabeth sighed, rolled her eyes slightly, and turned to her son; he was stood there, looking somewhat uncomfortable with himself, hand circling the back of his neck, eyes wide, hair everywhere, glasses skewed. “Yes?” she asked patiently.

Q let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well, I… I’m gay.”

For a moment, Elizabeth was honestly staggered.

“I…” she started, before speechlessness took over.

Q looked more frightened than she could ever recall him being.

“I just, over the years, and I think, I mean, I don’t know if…”

Elizabeth held up a hand, and her son fell silent; she caught sight of a thin chain around his neck, and smiled very slightly.

It was a serious struggle to try and find a sympathetic, caring way to let her son know that she would honestly have been more surprised if he’d told her he was straight.

-

When Q walked into the living room, hand in hand with James, Monique and Elizabeth immediately exchanged looks, and their grips rather instinctively tightened on their wine glasses.

They actually had a wager going.

“Mum,” Bond said, rather formally. “And Liz. Q and I have an announcement.”

Monique was doing incredibly well with the ‘looking formal and stern’ thing; Elizabeth was finding it very difficult to not grin like an idiot. Q looked stupidly, ridiculously happy, and it was difficult to  _not_  just bury her son in love and inform James Bond that he was  _damn well_  going to look after her son, as he had done since their first ‘marriage’, since when Q had munched a gummy ring and had it replaced with a little plastic one that he had worn on a chain around his neck when it got too small, and she knew still lived at the back of a cupboard, and had done all through university when he and Bond had barely seen one another, and had remained a good-luck charm since Q had been tiny.

“We’re getting married.”

Elizabeth and Monique both made rather identical sounds, and pounced on their respective children. “Cake?” Elizabeth suggested, over Q’s head; Monique collapsed with laughter, while Bond and Q exchanged quick looks, quiet smiles, fingers linking quite inextricably together.


	154. The Double-Oh 'Q' Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey I loooove your writing. I had a prompt - One where Q is a new rookie double oh agent who is sent on one of his first missions with 007 (Bond). *throws flowers on you* you guys are so amazing – anon

 ‘Q’ didn’t have an actual name. Apparently, his real name was buried in some form of government file (which Bond had tried to trace, only to be constantly rerouted to one Mycroft Holmes) and thus, everybody was to know him and refer to him as Q only. It didn’t matter much; Bond was never one for names, and spent of his life under an alias anyway. It was actually a lot easier to only have a syllable rather than a full name to remember.

He was also the new 002. His predecessor had died, extremely nastily, after a six-day interrogation. It was a very difficult role to fill, and Q – like everybody else – knew what had happened. Double-oh agents were targets.

Q really didn’t look like he was the type to survive much, either. Much though Bond would have liked to give him the benefit of the doubt, he was ridiculously skinny and wore glasses, for god’s sake.

In fact, Bond only understood when he saw the man shoot.

Q was by far the best marksman Bond had ever seen. He had a casual ease about it, a nonchalant manner of lifting and firing distances that should not have been possible. He was the epitome of calm, and even had the audacity to smile lightly when he noticed the weight of Bond’s eyes on him. “Sometimes,” he noted, gently mocking, “I can surprise even the most experienced, it would seem.”

Bond shook his head slightly, smiled, and they shifted into the next phase of the mission.

At which stage, Bond was made to feel very, very old, and a little redundant.

Q could seduce everything, and everyone. While Bond was good with women, they were often only facilitators in reaching other men; Q could happily seduce women, then compound it by seducing the bloody men too. Bond could only stand and watch as Q keened into a man’s mouth and was taken upstairs, glancing for the slightest of heartbeats at Bond before vanishing away and returning, two hours later, with a microchip and a grin that Bond didn’t know what to do with.

The boy was impossible.

Bond was almost entirely certain he had fallen in love.

\---

Q and Bond began to get paired for a decently large number of assignments. They complimented one another beautifully; Q was a better marksman, but was a little lacking when it came to simple charm. Bond could speak to literally anybody in the world and somehow wind up with them slipping out information, easier than breathing, easier than lying.

The pair seduced in near enough tandem. One particular mission found Bond in bed with an ambassador’s wife, listening to Q’s moans from the next room and neither party apparently minding. It was something of an odd mission.

Bond couldn’t stop himself simply  _watching_  the man. Q was extraordinary. Not the youngest double-oh he had ever encountered – they died young, started early, as a rule – but certainly  _looked_  it, and some of his naivety could be breathtaking, but he was clever and unbearably quick.

“Bond, I have visual, and not on you. Planning to turn up at any stage?”

Okay, so Bond did occasionally want to throttle him too, but that was to be expected. “I’m cleaning up your mess. ETA five minutes.”

“Copied. I’ll see you in two.”

Bond rolled his eyes, and got there in one minute thirty.

It took six months for them to wind up in bed together, and both decided it was a terrible idea, and they would never do it again; not due to lack of sexual compatibility – which, it transpired, they had in spades – but because it was Extremely Unprofessional (and M would probably kill them).

On their next mission, Q had been sipping a cup of tea and scrolling through a file on his laptop, and simply said: “I’ve never been very professional, you know.”

Bond all but threw the laptop to one side, ignoring Q’s mild noise of indignation, and pinned him to the sofa. Q found himself writhing like a thing possessed on their armchair, before Bond scooped him into his arms and tossed him into the bedroom; Q caught himself mid-fall, twisting in a move of gorgeous athleticism to capture Bond in another searing kiss.

Bond grinned into Q’s mouth, kicked the door shut with one foot, let Q take both of their guns and place them on the bedside table, and promptly ignored the rest of the world for the space of the next few hours.


	155. The Sherlock Hiatus Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love Bondlock, you, and your writing… so may I ask for a prompt? Bondlock. John has a break down one night. Q and Bond agree John going into their flat. One day John discovers the messages Q sends to Sherlock. Thank you sweetie – anon

John woke up.

The usual apathy laced through his body; morning, consciousness. The understanding that it was another day without Sherlock, the knowledge of loss, the memory of a hurt that lived under his skin.

Bond and Q were lovely people. Q was Sherlock’s brother, had taken John in despite barely knowing him; he had appeared out of the blue, offered to take him out of 221B while he languished in a hospital bed after a pitiful attempt to join Sherlock. John had accepted out of a sheer need to not be on his own any more.

Q’s phone was buzzing insistently in the other room. John sighed; Q had a habit of passing out like a corpse after days of constant work, and Bond was out on a mission for a week. Even Q’s phone wouldn’t wake him up when he was finally catching up on days’ worth of sleep.

John thus stumbled into the living room, and reached for the phone.

The message remained livid, obvious, lit and stark and impossible.

Cairo. I require an update, and preferably another Walther; I’ll be in static location for another month. Will forward address. SH.

SH.

John had only ever known one man to sign off his messages, to use his initials. Thoseinitials.

A heartbeat later he was in Q’s room, door slammed open; Q twitched, letting out a low groan. He didn’t actually move, even as John moved closer, pushing him over, phone in his face. “Glasses,” he mumbled, hand grappling.

He woke up a lot faster when he saw the message.

“Fuck,” he breathed, looking up at John with something like fear. “I… John, shit, I… I couldn’t tell you, it was for your safety…”

“My safety?” John asked, in a truly lethal voice. “I had a fucking breakdown, and you claim I was safest not knowing? What the fuck is he even doing? Why isn’t he here, why… why did he lie?”

Q breathed as best he could, still exhausted, barely conscious. “Call him,” he said quietly. “I can’t explain, it isn’t mine to… look, just know I’m sorry. I swore I wouldn’t. I tried to look after you, with everything… I’m sorry.”

John didn’t say another word, not trusting himself to be rational.

He left, instead, standing in the living room for a moment with the phone in his hand, staring, a rabbit in headlights.

Call sender?

John held the phone to his ear, and waited.

\---

“Ah.”

“ _That’s all you have to say?!_ ”

Q had sat back, chewing his nails, watching John Watson verbally decimate his brother for being moron enough to fake his death, lie persistently, and indeed force Q into complicity via rather unfair blackmail and general nastiness.

Honestly, Q was glad the news had finally broken. It had been getting hard to maintain an at-least-partially-dangerous façade, given John’s somewhat precarious state; now, the two idiots could work out whatever they liked, and Q could go back to his own bloody flat and stop worrying that his brother’s flatmate and pseudo-lover would kill himself the moment he wasn’t looking.

Eventually, the storm blew out. “He’s not coming back,” John said, dangerously quietly.

Q had no idea what to say.

“Why not?”

“Apparently, he still has work to do.”

Abruptly, John threw the phone halfway across the flat; it shattered spectacularly, raining fragments of plastic across the desk.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Q exclaimed, legs abruptly tucking out of the way. “John, that was  _my phone_. I know you’re angry…”

“You have  _no idea_.”

Q let out a sharp cackling laugh. “You think my brother has always been stable? That I haven’t had things like this before? This is pretty much standard Sherlock, and that doesn’t give you any right to break other people’s belongings and throw teenage tantrums. Get a grip, Doctor Watson, you’re better than this.”

John was very, very still.

Q was rather frightened, if he was completely honest with himself.

The tension drained out of John’s body, and he all but collapsed into the sofa. “I can’t believe he’s alive,” John said simply, dully. “I… it’s difficult to take in. His  _voice_ , even, I just… I thought I was starting to move on a bit. Only now I know he’s out there somewhere, presumably in as much danger as he usually manages, and won’t be helped.”

“John, he’ll be alright,” Q tried, gently. “Mycroft’s on the case, too…”

“ _Superb_. Does anybody  _not_  know?!”

Q was quiet for another moment. “I can’t tell you that. Sherlock has plans in place. Fuck, John, I’m so sorry.”

John didn’t speak.

He walked out.


	156. The Infertile!Omega Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q’s an omega who can’t have children. While this helps fend off unwanted attention from alphas it also garners annoying pitying looks when Q could honestly care less about his ability to have children. He gets doubly annoyed when 007 starts expressing an interest, thinking that Bond is only interested in playing fast and loose with an omega he doesn’t have to risk kids with. Bond is actually genuine, never wanting kids either. – anon

He had found out relatively early; a routine doctor’s app over some mild abdominal pain, and an end to his hopes of a family.

Instead, Q had focused on his career, making it further than any other Omega had managed: exceptional exam results, an Oxbridge degree and MA, headhunted for MI6. Q-branch had adored him; a young, intelligent and beautiful omega that devoted his life to his work.

His promotion to Quartermaster had been something of a mixed blessing. It was the job he had dreamed of, a complete joy; however, he couldn’t quite escape that it had only come on the back of his condition. Infertility meant that he wasn’t going to run off and get pregnant, starting a family at the most inappropriate of moments. M had told him to try and see his condition in a positive light – a liberation, as it were.

Something, that never quite felt true.

Q had made his peace, now, after a very dark portion of his teenage years. Nobody wanted a broken omega. The basic function – breeding – gone. As one of his exes had told him: he would make a spectacular whore. All the sex, with none of the risk.

Bonding, he could still do. He could still fall in love, could still knot and bond, have his entire being entwined with another. The problem was in that  _nobody wanted him_. Nobody wanted an omega who couldn’t start a family, was ‘wrong’ (another charming description from another ex) and so Q had brief tangles, sex, and the alphas were gone by morning.

James Bond expressing an interest was therefore a little bit worrying.

"No, thank you," Q had answered, quite politely, on the first offer of drinks.

Bond had conceded, only to try again the next week – offers of coffee, just a walk, shared lunch in the grotty MI6 canteen. Q gently and politely refused, although honestly couldn’t deny that the man’s general aura was rather entrancing.

On the fifth occasion of Bond’s asking, Q began a refusal, only to be stopped mid-way. “Please, before you turn me down, could I at least know why?” Bond asked.

Q sighed, fingers locking together, leaning back in his chair. “You are aware of the reason that I am unbonded, yes?” he asked wearily, in no mood to lie.

Bond nodded slowly. “You’re infertile,” he replied, watching Q’s face with something approaching confusion.

"Yes, 007. Can you therefore appreciate my qualms in accepting your advance – a known lothario who has yet to bond or indeed commit to anybody at all?” Q asked, rather rhetorically.

Bond’s expression remained calm, no flicker of anger as he considered it. “If I told you that I was – am – interested in more than just sex, would you believe me?” he asked softly.

Q swallowed slightly, voice a little dry. “Probably not, I’m afraid.”

"Can I change your mind?” Bond asked, without pressure. “I… if nothing else, just coffee. No strings, obviously. I’d just like to see more of you, if I can. If something more happens, that’s brilliant, but it wouldn’t be the only reason I’m asking now.”

Q paused, reminding himself that this was a man who lied for a living.

"I’ll… I’ll think about it," he finally conceded.

Bond’s smile, for a heartbeat, took Q’s breath away – and for a moment, just a moment, Q believed him.

\---

Bond was calm, gentle, and didn’t sleep with anybody.

Q watched with interest, with confusion. Bond was just nothing like he would have ever imagined, in a potential Alpha; nobody ever indicated a tremendous deal of interest, really, and certainly not somebody who truly seemed out of Q’s league.

Eventually, Q conceded defeat. They went out for drinks.

A week later, and it was dinner.

Not long after that, and Q found himself with Bond whenever they had free moments. They were just friends. Bond hadn’t pushed anything about trying to start anything more, and Q didn’t really want to broach the subject just yet while still quite uncertain.

Instead, weeks passed. A couple of months passed. Bond went on missions, Q overworked himself. Alphas and Omegas and all people alike were confused, but oddly accepting of the dynamic; the two operated in their own curious way, and were left alone to do so.

It happened by accident, in the end.

Neither knew who had initiated it, and it didn’t really matter. The pair found themselves kissing with tentative enjoyment, a quiet thing, fragile in so many senses. “You’re serious,” Q stated simply. “About me, I mean.”

 “Of course,” he replied, with a laugh living in his blue eyes. “Honestly, Q. I thought I’d proven that amply.”

Q kissed him again.

Bond refused to let it go too far; he kissed Q breathless, and left while desperately wanting more but knowing Q would need time, would regret it in the morning, and Q loved and hated him in equal measure for that decision.

The next time, neither stopped.

Q regretted  _nothing_.

Sated and contended in warm sheets, Bond held Q close to him, marking his throat, scentmarking without even realising he was doing so. “I…” Q began, before trailing off a little.

Bond paused in his ministrations, abruptly intent.

“If you’ll have me, I’d like to bond with you,” Q murmured, a little shyly.

Bond’s kiss was everything, and Q smiled like a sun and let Bond drift him away.


	157. The Sexuality Insecurity Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve enjoyed your prompts a lot! Now I’m thinking… Bond and Q have been flirting (or not, it could be just Bond realizing his attraction to Q) and Bond is absolutely floored when he realizes he’s actually attracted to a man. Not in a homophobic way (at least not entirely), it’s just something he hasn’t ever even considered and it’s hitting him really hard. Q helps (or not). I would absolutely love to see this. :) – anon

He had always been flirtatious. It was in his nature. It was in his bloody job description, come to that, but normally that was all. Words. No real meaning; more a method of communication. It put people at ease, complimented egos, inspired humour and a rapport that came in useful. Bond could make anybody like him.

Q flirted back.

At first, it was all banter. Amusing promises over headsets, a piece of equipment returned with the promise of where the next one would be going and quite  _how it would be getting there_ , various innuendos that skirted (and passed) the bounds of work etiquette, et cetera.

Quite unexpectedly, on an otherwise innocuous Tuesday morning, Bond found himself commenting on just how Q would look over his desk (the context was shady, and mostly had to do with a returned jibe after a compromising situation on Bond’s previous mission), and subsequently found himself with a rather pressing and ill-timed erection.

Naturally, Q dealt with it marvellously; he draped, dropped a pen and had to bend over for it, and even winked. Bastard.

At the stage when Q was almost certain he would at  _least_  be asked out for a drink, Bond abruptly vanished.

So.

Bond looked at his reflection, willing his mind to go elsewhere, and considering the possibility of not being entirely heterosexual.

That was new.

It could be Q’s occasional androgyny, and/or tiredness, and/or general need for a good fuck.

Or, it could be that the man he had been flirting with turned out to be a man he could seriously imagine spending not just a night with, but the following day too.

Oh dear god.

"James?"

Not who he needed right now,  _so_  not who he needed.

"James. Hello. Do you want to talk about it?"

A moment of quiet, Bond watching him as he turned from the sink. “Talk about what?”

Another moment of quiet, Q choosing words. “Have you ever been attracted to a man before?” he asked honestly, without judgment. “You don’t have to admit it, or anything, but please, just talk to me. I’m getting very mixed signals here. I just want to help.”

Bond stumbled over words, intentionally not really looking at his Quartermaster. The man was at least ten years younger, and yet seemed to have rather effortlessly honed in on Bond’s – rather substantial – reservations. “No,” he said honestly. “I have never felt attracted to another man.”

"You know you don’t have to do anything about it," Q pointed out. Bond turned to him, utterly confused, as Q continued. "Well, if you don’t want to. It also doesn’t stop you identifying as straight, if you want. That’s the fun bit about all this - you really do get to pick."

"Q, this is… it’s a bit fast," Bond admitted, feeling utterly undone, both by Q’s comments and by the sheer  _newness_ of it. “I’m not saying I don’t want you, but I don’t know… I just don’t know, right now.”

To Bond’s surprise – again – Q smiled. “Come get a coffee with me tomorrow, if you want. Not a date, just a chat. As friends,” he suggested, resting a hand lightly on top of Bond’s. “No strings. My only advice? Don’t ignore this. It will plague you otherwise. Turn up, work out if I am just a passing fancy – and I may be, I know that – or… well. If you want to try for dinner.”

Q squeezed Bond’s hand lightly, a parting gesture, and headed for the door.

"You don’t like coffee," Bond called after him, enjoying Q’s look of amusement more than he could express.

"No," Q agreed, smirking. "So you’ll be buying me tea."

\---

They tried for tea.

Bond could honestly say he loved every moment of it. It was becoming increasingly, absurdly difficult to really work out what on earth his sexuality was doing to him: he liked Q. He really,  _really_  liked Q.

Yet, he found himself talking to other men. Looking at other men. Trying to find something in them which seemed to pull him in the same way women  _still did_ ; that visceral response, the hook in the stomach that occasionally pulled him off-balance.

Q could do that. With a look, with a smile. Abruptly, Bond found his world tilt to one side – and more than just the physical pull, was a genuine  _rush_ , the urge to pull forward and  _be_  pulled forward, never fight back, just smile and laugh and linger in the man’s arms for the rest of a day or a night or however long.

Christ, he hated it.

It wasn’t homophobia, far from it, more that he had never imagined he would need to think of himself in that way. There was a definite shift in his general life trajectory, were men to abruptly become involved.

“James,” Q said quietly, at one stage, as they went out for dinner and Bond shifted slightly and still didn’t seem quite sure what to do with himself but definitely didn’t want to leave, “it is possible that there’s a… you know, an anomaly or two. It’s a spectrum, as they say. Maybe you  _are_  predominantly attracted to women, and I just slipped through the net for whatever reason.”

“So I’m bisexual?”

Q shrugged slightly. “Does it matter?” he asked, without force, without aggression. “James – it’s just a word. All of it, they’re just words. Whatever you identify as, or with, they won’t change anything! You’re not compelled to like or not like anyone. It’s like saying if you fell for a ginger you suddenly are honour-bound to like all gingers, it’s just silly to imagine you would.”

Bond nodded, couldn’t quite stop looking at him. “But this changes things,” he said quietly, after a moment of silence. “There aren’t exactly laws prohibiting anybody dating gingers.”

It was actively difficult for Q to hold back his smirk, but he managed it for Bond’s sake. “True,” he acknowledged. “We don’t have to make a big thing of it. It doesn’t… James, I really like you. I think we could be good for each other. But if you’re not happy…”

Bond leaned forward, and kissed him.

It was definitely a first.

Q let Bond lead, and Bond found himself exploring, testing, and then entirely losing himself in it. It was Q. His hair was the right length to pull fingers through, his skin was soft and yes, complexion that of a teenager, and he smelt of aftershave and Earl Grey and his fingers danced across Bond’s stubble, and there was something perversely right about the entire thing.

Bond pulled back.

It didn’t make everything better. It didn’t fix the worries, and it didn’t  _go away_ , per se.

But god, Q’s eyes were bright and Bond’s heart was loud in his ears, and for a  _moment_ , at least, he didn’t  _care_.


	158. The Punk!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I was at the movies this evening and there was a guy who was literally Ben Whishaw’s doppleganger except he was really punk and had short hair and a nose ring and tattoos and really (hot) skinny jeans and maybe you could write an au where Q is a delinquent teen and bond whos still an agent keeps having to get him out of trouble? how they meet is up to you! – anon

The boy slouched, running a hand through short spiked hair, attention almost wholly on his screen while impressive-looking headphones barred him from hearing the double-oh agent coming up behind him.

He did make a valiant effort to fight back, when he was twisted by the shoulder, made to face the man in the designer suit with the impressive gun.

Said man was speaking. The boy had his hands up in a mocking, somewhat comical pose. The boy gestured loosely to his head, in an attempt to explain that with heavy metal and noise-cancelling headphones, whatever the designer-suit man was saying was completely lost on him.

Secret-agent-man just pushed them backwards, off his head, with one hand – the other hand remained on his gun. “Fucking  _ow_ ,” the boy commented irately, hand moving to his ear; suit man had caught the piercing on his upper ear, and the whole bloody ear was sensitive anyway given that he’d just put it a new flesh tunnel.

“Name?”

The boy raised an eyebrow. “Q. You?”

“Q isn’t a name.”

“Try me,” he smirked back, and glanced back to his computer briefly. “You?”

Suit-man looked like he wanted nothing more than to track ‘Q’ over the head with his own bloody laptop. “Bond. James Bond,” he growled.

‘Q’ glanced round again, looked him up and down, snake-pierced lips quirking in an understated smile. “Mmn,” he murmured, voice sensuous, like the dark echoes of ink tracing along his arms. “I like it. So. Bond, James Bond. What can I do for you?”

It was terrifying, just how much sex Q injected into a single sentence.

Bond blinked. “You’ve been doing some hacking work, correct?”

Q’s smirk returned, a cheeky thing, accentuated by the unbelievable shade of green that popped beneath layers of black eyeliner. “What of it?” he asked, almost politely, with just a shadow of insubordination.

“I need to take you in for questioning,” Bond returned drily, uncertain of what in the _hell_  to do with the skinny creature in front of him, practically an alien as far as Bond was concerned. He very rarely had encounters with such people.

Q stood with gorgeous elegance, shoes propelling him an inch or two off the ground on an already tall frame, legs tapering to a minute point at his ankle, spray-on jeans catching the curve of his arse.

Bond’s mouth went dry, and he didn’t even really consider that fact that this was one of the  _very few_  times in his life where a target had decided to come with him  _entirely_ voluntarily.

It was only a while later that he started to contemplate why.

\---

The skinny boy had his legs crossed, expression fixedly amused in a way that skirted around being patronising and hit the realms of irritating. “This is the most anticlimactic questioning I’ve ever encountered,” he said mildly to an empty room. “Intimidation tactics having been proved redundant, could somebody possibly start said questioning?”

Bond rolled his eyes, and M let out a somewhat aggravated sound. “I have rarely been so irritated by somebody I have yet to meet in person,” she commented, with acid dryness. “Bond, go. You have carte blanche, but let’s at least  _attempt_  to avoid human rights lawsuits?”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” he replied, with a slight smile that boded a little ominously.

The door opened, and Q looked towards with vague interest. “Hello again, Bond, James Bond,” he purred, kohl-rimmed eyes batting at him. “How can I help?”

Never had Bond interrogated someone who sounded quite so much like he would like nothing more than for Bond to take him over the interrogation table. “Your hacking jobs. Who commissioned them?”

Q raised an eyebrow, the amusement sparking a little. “Many people. I’m good at my job, as I have no doubt you are. I have nothing much to report. I freelance.”

“If I don’t believe you?”

“Then you’re not as intelligent as I had you marked down as,” Q returned, not missing a beat; his feet circled slightly in mid-air, heels. The boy was wearing  _heels_.

Looking at the anxiety that was beginning to paint itself in his body, he was also lying.

Bond moved closer, leaning against the edge of the table, physical proximity notable; the boy watched him, expression not changing. In fact, he didn’t lean back, or illustrate any discomfort; if anything, he leaned  _in_  a little, allowing the edges of contact. “I don’t like being lied to,” Bond told him softly, an edge of his own flirtation creeping around the edges. “I’m going to ask again: who are working for?”

Q leaned in further, fingers brushing the edges of Bond’s suit, pink-stained lips inches from Bond’s own, voice a husky whisper: “ _I freelance._ ”

Bond’s movements were breathtakingly quick, whipping the kid around to pin him against the table by the throat, body slammed down, his eyes widening comically as he ricocheted off it.

“Ow,” he mumbled, looking – for the first time – a little bit wary. “No need for that. I’m telling you the truth, not my fault if you don’t like it. I work freelance, have no direct affiliations, honestly. Just a hacker.”

Straightening slowly, body remaining unbiasedly close, he continued to glance up and down Bond. “Thank you,” Bond told him, polite but cold.

“You’re welcome,” Q replied lightly, and his grin was all teeth.

\---

Regrettably, it seemed that ‘independent hacker Q’ was not quite as independent as he wanted to pretend – not a tremendous surprise – but more importantly, the person he was probably linked to was one of the more dangerous people in the underground world of computer skills and subsets.

The other problem was that James Bond went a little bit off piste the evening after his interrogation with Q.

Q was on a pallet bed in one of the holding cells, looking entirely bored, fingers tracing over tattoos branded into his skin, breathtakingly tight jeans and presumably too-hot leather jacket peeled off and cast haphazardly away, leaving him in equally tight underwear and black vest. His piercings, tattoos, decorated the planes of exposed skin, impossibly thin, angular, beautiful in a way Bond had never considered such before.

To his amusement, Q did not seem perturbed by Bond’s entrance at an obscure time of morning. He was half-asleep, although perked up the moment the door opened, and Bond – carrying a couple of glasses of scotch – walked in.

Without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, Q stood eloquently and stalked to the table Bond had slammed him against a bare few hours earlier, accepting the scotch with a small and knowing smile.

“I’m assuming you’re here to fuck me?” he asked, voice a low purr. “You know, for a secret agent, you should probably attempt to be less readable.”

“What would be the point?” Bond returned fairly.

A moment later, Q’s lithe body was wrapped through and around Bond’s, and the kid was kissing him with the force of a hurricane. He was good, too, groin pressing up against Bond’s, breath hot and fast and keening, sarcastic and acerbic and gorgeous as he mocked the agent for being “ _so hard so quickly, not been getting much_?” and yet whining pathetically when Bond took it slow, teased the boy inches from orgasm, fingers playing at his tight entrance.

They fucked with a perfect and ridiculous heat, and Bond slid out, to leave the tired-out hacker to sleep in the cell.

-

“ _Bond, did you not listen to my points concerning human rights?_ ”

He deserved to be shouted at. Bond knew that. He definitely deserved it.

“You couldn’t keep it in your trousers, and had sex with a boy in British custody – we have to release him, now, before he decides to take that nugget to information to every passing tabloid,” M was ranting, tangibly livid. “Was it worthwhile?!”

The honest answer was yes, but the honest answer would probably also get him castrated at the rate M was going. “My apologies, ma’am.”

M left. Bond simply twisted around, to look into the cell Q had been in a bare few hours previously, spotting a slip of paper on the desk.

Names. Contact details. Online aliases.

_Until next time, Bond James Bond. Catch me if you can. Q._


	159. The Hospital!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re so talented and well, i love how you do every prompt possible. I got one, if it’s not asking too much. 00Q!AU where Q isn’t working at MI6 because he’s suffering from rare illness. Bond is an agent and is severely wounded during a mission. They meet at the hospital. – anon

“Hello again.”

Bond turned his to head to the side, grinned. “Hey,” he replied easily, and took another step. “Give me a moment, rehab’s a bitch.”

“Go ahead,” Q laughed, and waved him on; Bond concentrated briefly, the living embodiment of mind over matter as he let his body do what he knew it could do, what it  _had_  to be able to do, and took his final steps.

Q gave him a somewhat sardonic round of applause, and Bond laughed. “You’re looking well,” he told Q, with an approving nod. “Are you supposed to be here, or are you on another walkabout?”

Q’s grin was electric.

They had met entirely by accident, when a bedridden Bond had found a boy sneaking through his ward in the middle of the night, and both had known he shouldn’t be there, and thus Bond had let out a sharp cry of pain – Q hadn’t been amoral enough to leave him alone – and so said bedridden Bond had a fully grown young man subdued in less than twenty seconds before asking him in not-very-polite terms what he was doing on a closed ward in the middle of the night.

Q had relaxed, and introduced himself as Q.

Bond had let him go, and introduced himself as Bond.

They managed absolutely nothing further in the way of conversation before Q was calmly but firmly removed from the ward by a collection of rather intimidating-looking men. “Speak soon,” he said brightly, and allowed himself to be escorted away.

The next day, Bond found himself facing the young man from the previous evening. “Hello,” Bond said, with tangible amusement. “Are you supposed to be here?”

“Nope,” Q acceded. “But they know they can’t stop me, and it’s supposedly helpful for me to ‘be social’, so I’m attacking you. Enjoy. Good luck with that.”

Bond smirked, very slightly. “Do I want to know?”

“I’m crazy,” Q said simply, almost brightly. “So I’m inpatient for the foreseeable future. And you?”

“I was shot by terrorists,” Bond told him frankly.

Q blinked, cocked his head slightly. “Should I know that?”

“Probably not,” Bond acceded, “but there’s nobody here to tell, and I’m guessing you stole my chart a while ago anyway.”

To Bond’s odd, displaced delight, Q laughed brightly enough to outshine stars. “You’re _good_ ,” he laughed. “I like you a  _lot_. So. James Bond, wasn’t it?”

“Q?”  
“That’s the one,” Q nodded. “Don’t listen to other names people will undoubtedly apply, they all sound ridiculous, and I won’t answer to them. I’m going to get some tea, by the way, do you want anything?”

Bond, somewhat bemusedly, agreed to a coffee.

“Back in a moment,” Q said brightly, and vanished before Bond could get his head around what on earth had just happened.

\---

The pair of them became very good friends, very quickly indeed.

Bond was due to remain in hospital for an annoyingly long time, mostly because the various bullets had rendered him near enough bedridden, and walking would remain not-very-fun for a decently long while; MI6 wanted him back up to full heath, and the most effective way was just to keep him in hospital and make him do physical therapy at all hours of the bloody day and night.

Q was brilliant company. “… and I hack sometimes, just for fun, I’m not really supposed to have computers here because they’re ‘bad for me’ but that doesn’t precisely stop me, so…”

Bond listened, and exchanged Q’s elaborate sillinesses for tales of gunshots and running and excitement, and Q tangibly loved it so Bond didn’t see a good reason to stop.

One day, Q didn’t come.

Q had come every single day, since they had met. Regardless of social constructs of good hours to visit or not, Q had come and sat on his bed, poked his bandages with a giggle and lack of any malice, and talked.

When he didn’t come, Bond could honestly say he was frightened.

For all their talking, Q didn’t talk about why he was in hospital. Bond knew he was in the psychiatric ward, and had been for a while, and would be for a while to come. There was enough one could extrapolate in that simple fact.

Bond made his way over to the reception desk – still in a wheelchair, which made life just that bit more annoying – and asked after the young man in the psychiatric ward.

The receptionist refused to tell him a thing.

Bond went to the psychiatric ward. The nurse he found looked immediately very tearful; Bond’s fear ramped up a notch, and he followed her to a bed, holding a very small and very frail, unconscious, Q.

“Hey there,” Q said, weakly, but still with impossible brightness. “Sorry about all this. Apparently people aren’t delighted when you do stupid things in a psych ward. Welcome, by the way, you’ve not been here yet, have you? This is me. My home, as it were.”

No cards. A couple of ornaments. A teddy bear proudly sat on the bedside table.

“How’re you feeling?”

Q looked at him fairly steadily for a moment, shrugged with an impassivity that was tangibly forced. “Definitely not dead. And you’re moving, which bodes well. The wheelchair must be getting boring.”

“More than you could know,” Bond returned, with a slightly petulant note that made Q’s smile widen, and Bond’s worry alleviate for the slightest of seconds before crashing, with painful immediacy. “Q, is there anything I can do?”

The smile stayed, but his eyes visibly saddened. “Not in the slightest,” he murmured back. “Thank you, though, for asking.”

Bond reached out, hand on Q’s exposed one, making Q hitch in a breath and looked nakedly terrified for a brief moment.

He didn’t pull away.

Bond stayed.

\---

Bond, of course, was discharged in the end.

Nobody was more upset than Q’s primary nurse. She was very fond of both of them – Bond was a tangibly positive influence – and they had seen one another daily for the past two months. Bond was charming and a very flirtatious creature, and Q was a nightmare patient but also meant no harm to anybody, ever. He was a boy struggling beyond words, and Bond had helped, if only a little.

Q refused to admit it, but he was dreading Bond leaving beyond all conception.

“I’ll come in when I can,” Bond told him honestly. “Work will keep me away, but I will keep in contact, I swear to you.”

“You’d better,” Q grinned, too energetic by half, all words and running sentences, pressured in a way Bond had come to recognise. “I’ll be coming after you when I’m finally out. Can’t believe you’re getting out before I am, s’not fair.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but I only got shot.”

Q pouted playfully. “Don’t want to stay here. Personally want to go see what your job  _really_  is, because you’re about as convincing as nothing at all, you’re not just an ambassador type, all that travelling, places you’ve been… I’m guessing secret service actually, given everything you’ve been saying.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Very good,” he mused. “And that’s about all I’ll be saying on the subject. You need to get better, Q, you need to keep working. How’s everything been?”

“My therapist is confused and I’m insane, so not much has changed recently, but there you are,” Q smirked. “They’re not even having a passing chat about discharging me yet, so I’ve got another month at best. Not that I have many places to go, even if they let me out, so I’m just going to twiddle my thumbs until further notice and hope I stop hearing voices. We live in hope.”

It had got easier, as time passed, for the pair to talk fairly openly about Q and his problems. Q had seen Bond curse his way through physical therapy, and Q was hardly reticent, so they had talked and Bond helped when he could and mostly left it to those who knew more than he did.

“You’ll be out soon enough.”

Q smiled half-convincingly, his eyes huge and deeply, horribly vulnerable. “Don’t forget me,” he asked softly.

“Never,” Bond assured him, and squeezed his hand gently, before disappearing.

\---

Bond opened the door, and let out a breath of open surprise. “I’ve been home half an hour.”

“I’ve been knocking at the same time daily for the past fortnight,” Q told him unapologetically, waving happily, before essentially keeling forward and putting his arms around Bond, holding onto him without any apology.

They stayed like that for a moment or two. Bond extricated his arms, so he could hug Q back. “Missed you,” Q muttered at him. “Twat. You didn’t bloody well come back. You didn’t  _bloody_  come back.”

Q was trying valiantly hard to sound angrier than upset, but utterly failed. Bond held him closer, guiding the slim boy into his flat, and shutting the door behind them; Q, by that stage, was mostly in tears. “Wait a moment,” Q said abruptly, pulling back, standing against the opposite wall to take several deep breaths.

Bond waited.

After a minute or so, Q opened his eyes, looking straight at Bond with absolute precision. “You told me you’d come.”

“I did,” Bond agreed.

Q’s expression had grown terribly, painfully vulnerable. “Why didn’t you?”

Bond kept eye contact, steady and consistent. “I had to work. As you worked out – I work for the secret service. I couldn’t come back, and by the time I did, you wouldn’t see me.”

“You’d not shown up for over a month!”

“And I told you I’d come eventually, I just couldn’t earlier,” Bond told him frankly; he had known full well that Q would have serious problems with his inability to return quickly, but there had been no other options. MI6 did not schedule itself around hospitalised psychiatric patients. “I kept my word, Q.”

Q shot him a very small, slightly apologetic smile. “I know,” he replied quietly. “When I… when I calmed down, I kind of realised, but then you didn’t come back again…”

“… in my defence, you were very vocal about me not staying around…”

“ _I know_ ,” Q repeated, looking deeply ashamed of himself. “I just couldn’t deal with it, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, s’why I’m here now. I had to come back, and I missed you a lot, and I’m fine now, now I’m out, and I’m being a bit more normal about things.”

Bond chuckled slightly. “I’ve missed you too, Q,” he said honestly. “I worried about you, Lottie told me you were alright, but with patient confidentiality there was only so much I could find out… anyway. Well done on breaking out.”

Q grinned excitedly. “ _I’m freeeeee_ ,” he crowed, laughing in a way that Bond couldn’t avoid laughing with; Q’s joy was contagious, everything about him was beautiful, and Bond watched Q laugh and didn’t stop laughing himself until Q was kissing him.

Bond pulled back instantly. “Q…”

“Sorry,” Q said quickly, already turning for the door. “Fuck. Sorry. Shit.  _Shit_.”

“Calm,” Bond told him gently, turning him straight back, grip gentle. “It’s fine. I just want to make sure this is what you really want. If you do, then I’m yours, but please – I am not around all that much, you don’t know much about me…”

Q let out a small sigh, raising an eyebrow. “Agent double-oh seven, licence to kill. Your last mission was in Ghana.”

Bond pinned Q against the wall by the throat.

Q had a panic attack.

Between them, it took nearly an hour to calm down.

“I hack in my spare time.”

“I’m paranoid.”

Q glanced at him, and despite the red rims around his eyes, and the slight tremor of breath: “Mr Bond, when it comes to paranoia, you’re still in the junior league,” he teased.

Bond extended a hand out, letting Q hold onto him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Q confirmed, and smiled with more shyness than Bond had ever seen from him.

They didn’t kiss. Q instead tilted himself over, head falling into Bond’s lap, letting the man stroke through his hair gently, Q’s heartbeat returning to normal under his fingers.


	160. The Public Indecency Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you do one where Bond gets arrested for something and Q and M has to get him out can be either something major or minor – anon

“You must be Mr Bond’s family.”

The head of MI6 stared back, her Quartermaster lingering a few paces behind with a mutinous expression; she gave a sharp nod.

The officer smiled slightly. “Could you please take a seat over there?”

Q looked inches away from mutiny, M forced to shoot him a practically murderous glance to stem any objections.

The pair moved to the offered seats, leaving the officer to rifle through for the correct papers. “Family?” Q muttered under his breath.

“We are hardly here in an official capacity,” M replied drily, not looking tremendously happy herself; her austerity had reached a terrifying level.

Q reached for his phone, stabbing the keys with unnecessary force. “It’s his own fault,” he hissed after a moment. “Alcohol induced public indecency?!”

“Believe me, I will deal with him – for now, I would appreciate you shutting up,” M told him coldly; with impeccable timing, an officer appeared from the other end of the room, bearing tea.

In an instant, M’s smile had turned saccharine, and her voice sailed to the ears of the sympathetic-looking officer. “Your father will be out soon, just had a bit too much, no need to worry,” she told a rather bemused Q.

"My…" Q began, abruptly understanding and abruptly absolutely  _livid_.

M cut over him, addressing the officer instead. “Thank you so much, we’ve been so very worried about him, haven’t we?”

"Distraught." Q replied through gritted teeth, finally understanding how M had become head of MI6 – she was more manipulative than the entirety of the double-ohs put together.

"I understand," the officer replied sweetly. "Can I get you anything else?"

M smiled, shook her head. “It’s quite alright – I would just like to see him as soon as possible,” she said instead, a perfect blend of sadness and anger and everything else one might expect from a concerned relative while Q – and his terminal inability to lie – all but simmered.

She waited until the officer was out of earshot to snap at Q: “Do grow up, Quartermaster.”

"She probably thought that you were my grandmother," Q replied, with a dash of vitriol.

M’s smile turned terrifying. “Or that I had rather younger tastes in men,” she countered, and Q was very silent, looking rather nauseous at the thought.

"If you could just fill these in madam, we are willing to let him go with a caution," the first officer told them, giving Q a sickeningly sympathetic nod; he restrained the urge to flick him the finger. "These things happen, but if we find him again, we will be taking this further."

"Of course, thank you so much," M told him, smiling as she read through and signed the papers. "Very kind of you."

The officer glanced between Q and M, while M scrawled a signature that was definitely _not_  her usual onto several pieces of paper. “No worries madam, just keep an eye on him next time eh?”

"Oh no worries there," she assured him, with homicide in her eyes. "He won’t trouble you again."

\---

Major cock-up. Major, monumental cock-up. Bond knew it, knew that MI6 were going to be livid and everybody was going to make his life hell.

Sending  _both of them,_ however, seemed like god’s little joke to make it the worst it could be. Revenge of the highest order. Just unfair, actually.

Q looked like he wanted to skin Bond alive, very slowly, and then probably just electrocute him repeatedly with a live wire and/or throttle him with a computer cable.

M was smiling in a way that made Bond feel in danger of literally shitting himself.

“Hello,” M said, with breathtaking coolness; the officer standing nearby didn’t bother to hide a small expression of amusement at the scene, and Bond merely swallowed and kept his pounding headache as hidden as he could manage. “How are you feeling?”

“Not great.”

M cuffed him around the head; he let out a low groan, while Q smiled maliciously. “Better?”

Bond assumed a somewhat more recalcitrant expression, mercifully enough, and hung his head in assumed shame. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Won’t happen again.”

“You fucking bet it won’t.”

“ _Language_ ,” M told him, her smile taking on an edge, a suggestion of indication towards the police officer telling some form of story Bond wasn’t following. “Out. Both of you.”

Bond and Q trailed after him, looking about as mutinous as each other.

Only when they were outside, in the car with an MI6 chauffeur driving, did things kick off – starting with Q slapping Bond hard around the face. “You’re a moron, and I’m livid,” he stated as his opening gambit. “James bloody Bond, I will never forgive you for this. I had to feign being a bloody family member – your son, for fuck’s sake, which is insulting and ridiculous – to get you out of  _prison_.”

“Better than Tehran.”

Another whack. “ _Stop being facetious_.”

“Stop  _shouting_ ,” Bond mumbled back, head throbbing unpleasantly, realising the stupidity of what he’d said a little too late after he’d said it. “Sorry. Sorry, that was a bad…”

Q was long since lost to his own fury.

“ _I will send you out with a gun that shoots bloody sparkles_ ,” he yelled, with frantic fury. “And  _nothing_  else. Do I make myself entirely clear?!”

“Quartermaster, calm yourself.”

“ _Shan’t_.”

Q seemed to find his own petulance a little odd, and abruptly calmed. “Alright. Sorry. But for god’s  _sake_ , Bond, I’m not happy. I’m spectacularly not happy, and I will have my revenge.”

“I have no intention whatsoever of stopping him,” M supplemented crisply, and gave him an almost-delicate smile. “Let’s take you to HQ shall we, 007?”

Bond just shivered slightly, and discovered what it truly meant to sincerely regret one’s actions.


	161. The Street Urchin!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q’s a street urchin who’s the only witness to the murder of another 00 agent and he’s caught on camera. When MI6 finds him, he’s extremely uncooperative and they jump the gun and consider torturing him. James calls them all idiots and bribes Q with food instead. – runemarks

The kid refused to identify himself as anything more than an initial. Nobody could find his name, age, where he came from. He had no home. Extremely skinny, evidently not being looked after. Probably just about teenage, maybe a little older, but it was difficult to tell.

They all knew that the kid had seen 004’s death. A nasty death, it had to be said, and they needed to know precisely what had happened, and the goddamn child was saying absolutely nothing.

It was possible that he had been threatened. It was also very possible that he was cooperating with whoever had done the damage.

The risk was too great; they needed the information, fast, and if he was refusing to cooperate then their only option was to extract the information through other means: they entered the cell with the boy, and informed him that they would begin hurting him, if he didn’t accede to their demands.

‘Q’, as he called himself, blinked hugely, green eyes dilated with terror, and said absolutely nothing.

Bond only caught onto what was going on by accident; he arrived in MI6 to find the entire building with the news. A child who was defying all expectations and driving M categorically insane, and one of the youngest potential torture subjects MI6 would have dealt with for a very long time; Bond was immediately summoned, given his experience, and asked to conduct the interrogation.

One look at the boy established precisely what the correct course of action would be. “Morons,” he muttered to his superior, and stalked to the cell door, pulling it open.

Q scrambled backwards slightly, nakedly frightened and still resolutely mute. “Hello,” Bond said lightly, closing the door behind him. “You’re Q, yes?”

“Yes,” Q returned simply, tone utterly hostile. “Are you here to… I mean…”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I have no interest in beating up a kid that weighs less than a prepubescent girl. No, I was just going to ask if you wanted some chocolate.”

It was actively heartbreaking, to see how much the boy lit up at the prospect. “Seriously?” he asked, with painful hope. “Erm… please. Yes.”

Without hesitation, Bond slid the chocolate over; watching Q, it was extremely evident that he had been starved for a rather long while. He played over it with thin fingers, ripping into it, clutching it close to his chest and watching Bond as though it was likely to be torn from him any moment. “So. I’m guessing you’re hungry?”

Q nodded, looking almost tearful. “Sorry. I just… I’ve been on my own a while, and I…”

“What did you see?” Bond asked gently. “Q, I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. I just need to know, so the people who did it can be taken away. That’s all. Nobody wants to hurt you.”

“They do,” Q pointed out, with a darting glance at the door.

Bond nodded. “Okay – so how’s this: I protect you. I keep that lot away, and find you some more to eat. Chocolate’s all very well, but I’d be happier if you had something else, yes? But in return, I just need you to tell me what happened.”

Q was very quiet for a moment, knuckles white with his grip on his chocolate. “Do you promise?” he asked, almost inaudibly.

“Yes.”

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Bond repeated, and watched the tension bleed out of Q’s body by increments. “Now. Talk to me?”

Q glanced up at him, nodded shyly, and started to talk.

\---

Q glared up at anybody in the vicinity who came near him without Bond’s explicit permission. It meant that Q was quickly becoming rather attached to Eve – who adored the kid, if she was being honest – and Bond was remaining steadfastly in place as his guardian.

The problem was that everybody was fairly certain that Q would have been tracked as a person of interest by MI6. The problem was that Q still seemed to be lying a fair bit, his story failing to quite make sense.

Bond sighed slightly, and supplied Q with a cup of tea and a very large plate of biscuits; it seemed the boy loved tea, and now he was a little less scarily starved, he was devouring everything in sight. “Q. Truth, now.”

Q looked up at him, biscuit in hand, body knotted up into the smallest space possible. “I told you…”

“… and you’re lying,” Bond completed. Q went a little bit pink, grip tightening on his biscuit, tea still in hand. “I can only protect you for so long, Q.”

Q’s eyes were turning bigger by the moment, tangibly frightened. “But I  _can’t_.”

Bond sensed he was close, so close, willing nobody to interrupt them now. “Talk to me,” he coaxed, beginning to plead a little around the edges. He didn’t want to see Q hurt. The boy deserved so much better.

“I can’t,” Q repeated, knuckles white. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I just can’t, they’ll…”

Q stopped himself, glanced up, eyes horrified and simply shocked at himself.

“Who?”

Q refused to speak.

“ _Who_?!”

Huge eyes, a terrified child. “I don’t know his name. He was tall, bleach blond. Spanish. Said MI6 would come for me, and when I told you what you want to hear, you’ll k-kill me.”

Bond relaxed a little. Somewhere, the description was being run through computer, tech branch getting themselves together. “Q,” Bond told him, voice gentler than he had needed use for a very long time. “Nobody is going to hurt you. Nobody’s going to kill you, I  _promise_  you. Remember, I’m your guard.”

Tremulously, Q nodded a bit. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Not at all,” Bond returned politely. “Now. Is there anything else you can tell me about this man…”


	162. The Forced Marriage Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d love a fic where Q is the youngest Holmes + is going off the rails a bit since the death of his parents. He loses his virginity to Bond + Mycroft is so cross that his baby brother’s reputation has been ruined that he makes Bond marry Q - but they do live happily ever after! – anon

"What the hell were you thinking?" Mycroft barked, as Q sat, half dressed on the sofa. He looked thoroughly debauched, hair a mess, body spent and covered in marks.

Q shifted uncomfortably, trying to cover as much of himself as possible as he faced his eldest brother.

Naturally, he didn’t say a word. There was little to say; he had managed a truly wonderful night with a man who was very much out of his league and absolutely gorgeous to boot, and was rather sore and very tired and Mycroft was shouting about reputation of all a sudden, and Q whined slightly and curled up into himself.

At which point, the bathroom door opened, to disgorge a wet-haired James Bond with a towel around his waist.

Bond paused, eyebrows raised as he surveyed the shouting newcomer.

"Can I help you at all?" he asked, looking from Q to Mycroft with amused polietness.

Mycroft glanced at him for a moment, before rolling his eyes. “Wonderful! You not only allow yourself to be ruined, but by an alcoholic and serial womaniser.”

Bond looked mildly surprised, but amusingly unoffended. “Bond. James Bond.”

"Mycroft Holmes."

Now, Bond looked properly concerned. “Sorry –  _Holmes_?”

"Q’s brother."

Bond looked to Q, to Mycroft. Blinked. “Ah. Well. That’s certainly news.”

"Quite," Mycroft replied stiffly.

"James, I’m sorry, he just barged in…" Q tried, kneeling up on the sofa. Mycroft raised a hand, silencing him.

"Are you aware, Bond, of the consequences of your actions?" Mycroft asked, as Bond continued to gaze in mild shock at the pair. "Or who indeed it was that you were…enjoying?"

"I’m beginning to understand," Bond admitted slowly. "I.."

"My brother has a reputation to uphold, as a Holmes," Mycroft informed the pair, somewhat primly. "Thus, the only way I can think of to rectify the situation is to inform you that you will be marrying. Q’s status remains intact, and it’s hardly likely to be a poor move for you, is it, Bond?"

Bond looked for a moment as though he had been hit very hard over the head with something solid. Q just looked distraught. “ _Marry him_?!” the younger man managed, looking from Bond to Mycroft. “I’m not going to marry him, I barely know him!”

"That did not seem to prevent you from sleeping with him," Mycroft pointed out as Bond struggled for words.

"That is…" he managed, eventually, "one of the most bizarre concepts I have ever…"

"I don’t believe I indicated, at any stage, that your consent would be necessary. I will speak to you both in my office this afternoon, once you are fit for company. Do I make myself clear?"

Q nodded. Bond looked shellshocked.

Mycroft walked out.

\---

“This is  _ridiculous_ ,” Q snapped at his brother, arms crossed defensively over his chest, staring down Mycroft Holmes with minimal success but admirable sentiment. “Mycroft, I’m an adult, I can make my own bloody decisions.”

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. “Apparently not especially  _good_  decisions, in the light of your recent catalogue of decisions,” he informed his sibling drily. “Since the plane crash…”

Q essentially shut down, there and then, expression dead, and refused to say another word in either direction.

Attention turned to Bond instead: “You will need to organise any last problems at your end, and we will have the date settled within the next week or so; the last thing I need is or news of this to spread,” he stated simply. “I am aware that this is unconventional…”

“… that’s one of the greatest understatements I’ve ever heard…”

“… but Q needs to be taken care of, and you are currently the only tenable option,” Mycroft completed, entirely unrepentantly; Q glowered at him, face contorted. “All of your recent decisions, Q, have been made without regard for consequences. This is the least painful option for all concerned.”

Q looked at him with sheer disbelief. “How is  _this_ …?”

“We could discuss your borderline alcoholism or near-bankruptcy if you’d prefer,” Mycroft interjected, before Q could get within spitting distance of the end of his sentence. “Do  _not_  underestimate me. I am extremely tired of all your pontificating as it is. I will contact you with further arrangements.”

-

Mycroft was terrifyingly true to his word.

A week later found Q and Bond in perfectly arranged tuxedos, looking the epitome of irritable. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I can’t believe I slept with a Holmes,” Bond muttered. “This. This is what I get for sleeping around. The universe has finally taken its revenge.”

“Cheers, my self-esteem is going up exponentially,” Q retorted, adjusting his cuffs self-consciously. “This isn’t exactly ideal for either of us, arrogant twat, but we’re getting married so  _please_  try and make this as painless as possible?”

“ _Shan’t_.”

“What are you, six?!”

“Says the  _kid_  who’s being bullied into marriage by his elder brother…”

“ _You’re marrying me too, don’t you dare make this all my_  _fault_.”

“Marital disputes already; bodes well,” a voice commented drily. “Both of you, come on.”

Q glared at his other brother, who was – apparently – complicit in this idiocy. “I hate you.”

“Quite,” Sherlock returned happily, and led them away into the registrar’s office.


	163. The Rogue!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I absolutely love your work, it’s amazing. Not sure if you’ve done this before but Q’s gone rogue and Bond has been sent to take him in/kill him, it’s your choice, but Q really doesn’t have a choice, he’s being threatened or something. Thank you if you do decide to write this. (I’d love it if this was 00Q but doesn’t have to be. ) *Sends jellyfish to add to your menagerie* - anon

Q was gone.

Bond let out a sharp noise of irritation. Trying to track the man down was near enough impossible; he was perpetually several steps ahead. Mercifully, this time Bond had clearly come close, Q’s cleanup not quite as thorough as in previous locations.

Indeed, there was still a cup of tea.

Steaming.

“Q?”

“James, I know you’re here to kill me.”

Q’s voice was echoing out of everywhere, reverberating off walls, through the stone underpassages; Bond had no idea how, but he became more alert, grip tightening marginally on his gun. “You’re a rogue agent.”

A soft noise, like a sigh, like a groan. “You believe them, then?”

“Is there a decent explanation?” Bond volleyed, and waited, trying to find a source. “Q, come out here. Let me see you, at least.”

Q laughed. “For god’s sake, I’m not stupid!” he pointed out, and Bond let out a slight breath; he had a direction now, he knew where to look. “James, this wasn’t my choice. They threatened… tortured, actually, for a little bit, and I couldn’t, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t cope any more and I’m so sorry, James, I’m so sorry.”

Bond was quiet for a long moment. “Give me a reason to believe you.”

The answer was quiet, and devastating in its enormity:

“You loved me, once.”

Bond let out a long exhale, dizzied, exhausted. Tracing Q had been so difficult, and not fair, none of this was bloody well  _fair_  and yes, he had loved Q once, but that was a very long time ago now, and a lot of things had hurt in the interim.

He knew where Q was. He could hear it. The finely tuned measure of breath and body and heart. It would be incredibly simple, and incredibly easy; a single shot, a single flick of a finger and this would be done with.

Only, Q could be telling the truth.

He could also be lying.

“Please listen,” Q asked, with tentative quiet. “Give me a chance to explain everything. Please.”

For a very, very long moment, Bond considered.

“Alright.”

\---

A single look at Q confirmed that he was not the same man Bond had once known. Over a year, so much of their lives had irretrievably altered, and Q was terribly thin and very pale, watching Bond through eyes wider than he had ever seen them, his glasses different to how Bond remembered, a little wonky and metal rather than his semi-fashionable plastic.

“James. I need you to get me out. If we are to have this conversation properly, it cannot be here – those who were originally responsible will be here fairly imminently, I am bugged. Disabled now, but in being so, they will be on their way.”

Bond rolled his eyes; of course, it couldn’t ever be bloody easy. “Fine,” he grunted, still watching Q with unapologetic suspicion. “I will not hesitate in killing you if I feel it necessary.”

“Understood,” Q returned, voice slightly dull, watching Bond with tangible sadness.

It was so hard. So  _tiring_.

Q had loved Bond more than life itself, had  _missed_  him. Tracked progress on stolen seconds of footage and smiled more than he knew he was still capable of, his once-love and the man he had let himself believe would save him at some stage. Q had never before been the type for ‘belief’, certainly not in the sort of person Bond was, and he had never needed to be saved before.

Bond was just as beautiful as Q remembered.

He would have sold his soul for the feel of Bond’s arms wrapped around him, to bury himself in Bond’s shoulder, feel the shiver of a scar over his skin, Bond kissing the top of his head in a way that had always made Q feel  _home_  and the last couple of years could be made to have not-happened just in the space of a kiss and Bond’s warmth.

Instead, Bond watched him with evident distrust, the gun holding him away.

Q led the way out, deft movements, long body sliding in and through shadows, keeping to the edges in a practised manner, avoiding notice, a heartbeat away from disappearing altogether.

Noises. Sounds.

Q twisted instantly, looking at Bond, his eyes still as bright as Bond remembered them ever being. “If this goes wrong, please – kill me. Don’t let them take me back, just shoot me. I don’t want to hurt anybody else.”

Bond waited a moment, looking over Q’s face,  _his_  Q’s face. “You have my word,” he replied, a depth in his tone that Q’s heart stopped beating slightly at the sound of, the promise of everything they had once been.

“ _THERE_.”

Gunshots rattled the air, and Bond was in motion.

Q took a couple of steps backwards, watching, eyes huge behind his glass frames.

By the time Bond looked around, Q had been swallowed by the shadows, nowhere to be seen.

\---

Bond cursed in a fluent and varied collection of languages, settling on Arabic as one of the few that truly captured his sentiments. “ _Q?!_ ”

He barely saw the man: “I’m sorry,” Q told him gently, and shot him.

-

Bond woke up, memory semi-instating and causing unmitigated chaos the moment it did.

Q had shot him. Q,  _his Q_ , had shot him.

Bond’s leg hurt.

“James?”

Bond attempted to sit up very abruptly, only to find that almost every single part of his body unanimously disliked the attempt and brought him sharply back to horizontal. “You are a traitor to your country, and your colleagues,” Bond told him, voice sharp and almost flat in delivery.

“I know,” Q agreed, not unkindly, coming into Bond’s sightline. “I apologise for all this – I’ve had to strap you to the bed – but I think you can understand why I felt there were no other options.”

“I will kill you for this.”

“You would have merely shot me, they would have taken their time; thus, I chose the less lingering option,” Q parried, without hesitation. “We do what we must. I will not be walking for a fairly long while, mercifully I am still useful or we would not be having this conversation.”

Bond lifted his head slightly, scanned down; true to his word, Q was in a wheelchair. “Capturing 007 wasn’t enough for them?”

Q’s smile was wry and sad, lingering: “I asked you to try and get me out. They knew that. The moment we got near the exit I realised we would never get out, not even with you at your best, which you are not…”

Bond looked like he wanted to interject. Q’s expression remained unpleasantly harsh, and he let the words die in situ. “… and I decided death could wait to get hold of me, and I’d do what I had to in order to not spend what remains of my pitiful life being shown precisely how a liv vivisection works in practise,” he continued, with a degree of frankness that made Bond wince very slightly.

An impasse; Bond just looked at him. “So how are you allowed to be here, and not busy at the hands of your betters?” he asked drily. “You’re not exactly filling me with confidence. Whose side are you on, exactly?”

“Whichever will keep me alive longest,” Q returned, without hesitation or apology.

Well. At least he was being honest.

“And  _loyalty…_ ”

“Oh, don’t make me laugh,” Q told him, with a scathing contempt that was almost welcomingly familiar. “All I ask is that when backup arrives, you don’t shoot me straight out. Give me a head start. You’re alive because of me.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”

“I told them who you are,” Q returned calmly. “I wouldn’t worry – they tend to take a little time before beginning outright interrogations. With some luck, MI6 will arrive first.”

“Superb,” Bond muttered, as the doors opened.


	164. The BDSM Club Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about Bond + Q have to go undercover at a BDSM club? Bond thinks Q will be nervous as he thinks Q is so innocent/inexperienced then he finds out Q is a BDSM expert and quite possibly the pushiest bottom ever! – anon

Bond took one look at the man, and his mouth went utterly dry; somebody had been very thorough in what to dress Q in, had clearly done research and quite a bit of lateral thinking to work out what he would look best in.

The trousers were literally obscene, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and causing a mild haemorrhage to Bond when he looked at Q’s groin. The collar was tight and thin, black vest top, a shirt loosely over the top, boots. “Christ,” Bond muttered. “Alright then. Shall we?”

“Of course,” Q returned, in his usual crisp tone, and stalked forward; he glanced back a moment later, seemingly confused. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you planning to be my dom, or not? I’d assume we were going to start assuming character from the outset – not to mention that you’re concealing your arousal exceptionally poorly.”

Bond blinked, a little confused. “Hang on – do you… I mean, are you aware of how…”

“Of how this works?” Q completed, expression vaguely pitying. “Oh dear, Mr Bond. You have absolutely no concept, do you? I’m hardly a wilting flower. Now please, do dominate, if you are actually able.”

A raised eyebrow, and Q was half-lifted off the floor, pressed against the wall. “You see, the least you could do is actually try for some  _conviction_ ,” Q muttered, entirely unimpressed.

“You’re a little shit, have I mentioned this?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Sticks and stones, Bond, now kindly prove you can do this, before I abort this mission on the grounds that you’re useless.”

Bond could honestly he had very rarely been so shocked; he pulled Q back, before  _slamming_  him into the wall; Q’s eyes widened incrementally, before he practically  _purred_. “You will address me as ‘sir’,” Bond told him. “Hard limits?”

“Fluid play, and degradation. I’m good with most other things, but if you’re planning something off the beaten track, please do warn me first. Safeword is ‘microsoft’.”

“Mine is Skyfall, unsurprisingly,” Bond returned, with something of a grim smile. “And that would be ‘ _sir_ ’, to you.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Make me.”

Bond slapped him without a heartbeat of hesitation. “Duly noted, sir,” Q managed back, when he had his breath back, and his expression was naked interest, raw passion. “Now, shall we, double-oh seven?”

“Let’s.”

\---

Bond rather liked the club itself. Not too seedy – always a risk in such places – but naturally riddled with darker pleasures and the allure of beautiful creatures. Q being attached to him certainly helped his overall sanity, as one of the most beautiful of those present, and attached to him in the most literal of senses possible: Bond had him on a leash, and the mere concept of that was enough to make him practically  _purr_  with contentment.

Q was elegant and gorgeous, slim lines sliding in and out of focus with eloquence that turned Bond’s mouth dry, flirtatious in a way that made Bond instantly slam him against a wall and kiss him until the boy was half-sobbing with want, and fuck, but this was going to be a hell of an evening.

It was amusing to have somebody who was such a  _difficult_  sub. Q was hardly going quietly. Within a handful of minutes, it became evident that Bond was going to have to resort to serious disciplining if he wanted to be taken seriously.

Quite frankly, it seemed as though Q was hardly likely to mind much. In fact, his sole aim in life seemed to be to antagonise Bond in every way, shape or form.

In short, Q would up manacled to the ceiling, Bond with a short whip in hand.

Q had never been so aroused in his life.

The best part was that they had attracted the attention of precisely the right people. The small crowd that had gathered were focusing attentions on either Bond or Q with precisely the right shades of enjoyment, and Q could see members of the group they were intending further dialogue with; he arched his back, presenting his arse to Bond, and they played.

Holy  _fuck_ , but Bond knew how to handle a whip.

Q was breaking apart, and apparently rather liking it; Bond couldn’t quite believe his Quartermaster could hold such extreme interests without the faintest shadow of it. Bond rather lived by his transparent sexual proclivities. Q, less so.

Their heads together, Bond ripping an almost vicious kiss from Q’s ragged lips; Q returns in full force and with no hesitation, drawing everything he can, whimpering delectably into Bond’s mouth as tongue flicks teeth, lips, and his eyes are enormous in the dimmed light.

 “I’ll speak to the doms over a drink in a moment. You’ll stay here until I release you,” he said in an underbreath. “We leave in one hour.”

“… but…”

A sharp slap; Q falls silent, watching Bond with wary interest, deference, just the shadows of smirks lingering in the corners of his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” he says, in a tone which is practically insubordination.

Bond grins, and lets Q’s eyes follow him as he goes, nodding a greeting to a man barely containing his arousal and gliding into conversation without the slightest pressure of difficulty.


	165. The Slave!Bond Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love your fics! I was wondering I’ve read a few fics where Q gets bought as a slave but I’d like to read one the other way round where Q buys Bond as a slave. Esp if it’s some sort of AU where it’s actually the Doms/tops like Bond who have to be the slaves. – anon

He was a beautiful acquisition, Q noted, looking at the man before him. Strong; well built; not too tall that he towered, but tall enough to feel safe next to him. The type of creature Q could imagine keeping, a talisman against the darker facets of the world.

"James Bond?" Q asked, continuing to stare.

"Yes sir," the man replied gruffly, military. Naval, Q remembered from his file. He had been sold off to MI6, given that he was evidently of more use there, provided he remained amenable to usual controls. Intelligent – something of a rarity amongst some of the slaves, given that most were the animalistic types – and gorgeous. A perfect juxtaposition to Q. Lean, pale, highly intelligent; an intellectual, the type  _expected_  to keep a decent bed slave, to satisfy the baser needs. Bond was intelligent, perhaps, but not an intellectual by any stretch; the violent instincts were predominant, and those types needed tempering, controlling.

Q didn’t believe a word of it, but there had been a fair amount of pressure on him to acquire a slave, and so he had; he had no interest in the less pleasant aspects of ownership, leading to a swift removal of Bond’s shackles. “Hope the journey wasn’t too god awful,” he told the man, massaging out the marks on his wrists efficiently.”

"Pretty dire, but I’m used to it," Bond shrugged, Q nodded.

"I’m not a radical - I do intend to use you," Q told him, though there was a lighter note in his voice. "Unless you have any major objections?"

"Am I to take it that you are also my Quartermaster?" Bond asked conversationally.

"Quite," Q nodded, moving to the sofa and indicating that Bond should join him. “I was gifted you, actually, given that you’re not currently under a single owner. It seemed neatest.”

"I don’t see much of an issue then," Bond replied, taking a seat and opening out his arm for Q to lean in. "Though I have been more used to female owners, in the past."

"Similar mechanics," Q assured him, reaching for his laptop as the pair settled. "Please do ask if you have any questions."

"You’re a sarcastic little shit, aren’t you sir?" Bond asked, as Q snorted; Bond braced himself for a more definitive response, and found absolutely none:

"Indeed I am Bond,” Q told him instead, now settled with laptop, and near enough ignoring his rather confused new slave.. “Now, there is one final question.”

"Oh?"

"Have you been trained in making tea?

\---

Q was honestly unsure of what to make of his new slave.

Bond was very beautiful. He had clearly been taught to make tea by somebody with no understanding of the subtle art of tea, which was distressing but manageable, but there was also the small and annoying fact of his obsessive tidiness.

It was difficult to tell whether it was army or slave-based training which had led to it, but Q kept finding everything  _folded_. His towels moved into where they should be, not where Q expected them. Everything was  _tidy_ , and honestly, it was a little bit creepy and Q was accustomed to working within a carefully balanced chaos which Bond did not seem to understand in the slightest.

“ _If you move my work tools back into place one more time I will insert one of them up your nostrils_ ,” Q snapped, finally locating the blasted thing and returning it to an uncertain location on his desk which Q would remember and he would  _not_  admit that it was actually quite a useful thing, to occasionally actually  _know_  where things were, because that was not the point.

Bond had nodded formally, and taken several steps back, leaving Q to rearrange things as he preferred.

The tea training took a little while. The bed training did not; Bond was certainly adaptable, although certainly under-experienced when it came to the male anatomy; most of it was improvised, which, given the practised and somewhat mechanical way he had attempted to approach simple kissing, was probably for the best.

Q had never believed in beating slaves, hurting them. It seemed a touch pointless, if he was quite honest. Bond’s imperfections were treated with mild annoyance and sarcasm that could probably cut more effectively than any implement.

“How may I be of service this evening?” Bond asked, his voice level and low, a tone that tended to make Q smile slightly for reasons he didn’t fully understand.

He paused for a moment, and drew Bond into a lingering kiss. Bond always seemed to like kissing, especially once Q had made it very clear that “ _I am not a plaster cast of every other person you have ever encountered. Sex tends to be a more enjoyable experience when reciprocal. Your enjoyment will augment my own. Do I make myself clear_?”

Bond had rendered quite entirely speechless by those few sentences, the fact of which made Q’s heart ache for him a little. “Thank you, sir,” he had replied quietly, and their next kiss had been exploratory and passionate at once, and Q’s libido responded with smug immediacy.

They had languid and lovely sex, Bond coming with a low gasp and Q crying out openly, feeling Bond’s smile against his throat as the sound echoed of the wall.

“Thank you,” Q mimicked, Bond’s warmth around him in the night, keeping away the demons.

Bond kissed the back of his neck, quite of his own volition. “My pleasure, sir,” he replied gently, and Q slipped into sleep, Bond keeping him close.


	166. The Young Agent!Bond Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about an age swap prompt? Bond is a young agent and Q is an experienced Quartermaster? – anon

Q sat back, rubbing his temples. James Bond, the bane of his fucking life. The man was barely in his twenties, a complete loose cannon, drinker, smoker, womaniser. Honestly it was a miracle the man was still alive.

"No, your other left, Bond," Q tried, smiling gratefully to Eve as she handed him a mug of tea. He had been quartermaster for slightly over a decade, and the veneer was wearing thin.

Q watched with quiet interest, the young man’s head darting around frantically. “Where is he?”

"Maybe I would know if you hadn’t lost him," Q replied lightly, trying to find their target and getting mildly annoyed around the edges.

Bond’s voice remained carefully moderated, attempting nonchalance with debatable effect. “I was busy.”

"Sleeping with a prostitute is not ‘busy’ Bond," Q informed him coolly.

Bond sounded genuinely aggrieved, to Q’s amusement. “I wasn’t paying, and she gave me useful information.”

"So useful, in fact, that you managed to lose her pimp; well done," Q returned, somewhat sarcastically. "Ah, got him, next right."

"You’re getting slow old man," Bond told him through a laugh.

Q narrowed his eyes. He was a few years shy of forty, and hardly looked it. A few grey streaks through otherwise impressively messy hair, and the glasses came as standard. “Do you want equipment the next time you are out in the field 007, or shall I just send you out with a stick and a condom,” Q asked, as Bond followed his co-ordinates.

"Who said I needed the stick?”

"How are you still disease free?" Q asked, as Bond engaged in a round of gun fire.

"Someone been checking my records?" Bond quipped, as he moved on. "You know, the dinner offer still stands…"

"Married, 007," Q told him, eyes locked onto the computer screen.

"You’re lying," Bond replied easily. "I checked."

"Fine, old, alone and living with cats," Q retorted as Bond performed a truly frightening feat of dexterity, clearing the roof he was on and moving to the next.

Q tried not to smirk as Bond replied: “I’ll pick you up as soon as I get back,” Bond said brightly.

"Just concentrate on the damn target, Bond."

\---

When Bond finally made it back to the UK, he was sporting bruises, a sprained shoulder, and a shit-eating grin that Q slightly wanted to punch out of him with great joy and vengeance, and opted not to on the grounds of paperwork.

Bond extended a hand out. “Dinner. Table is booked for eight.”

“I’m busy,” Q returned, feeling his age, Bond’s electrically bright eyes and unlined face, slight tan, the beginning of calluses on his hands from the perpetual gun handling, but other charm and youth to make those things seem forgettable. “Go away, 007, I have work to do.”

“I’ll have you home by midnight,” Bond teased, refusing to go anywhere at all. “Come now, Quartermaster, an agent needs your help.”

Q raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Help?”

“Even I may have some issues eating two steaks solo,” he pointed out, and god  _damn it_ , but the man was charming.

“And if I’m vegetarian?”

“I believe vegetarian steaks exist, and so my point remains,” Bond parried brightly.

Good lord, young people were irritating. He was so goddamn  _energetic_. “Bond, this is absurd. I am twice your age, and your superior officer. Given your proclivities for charming young woman with pneumatic breasts and an unfortunately low IQ, I fear I may be something of a disappointment to you.”

Bond pretended to consider for a moment. “Breasts are excellent, I’ll freely concede, but there’s a lot to be said for the male genitalia,” he told Q, in a tone so delightfully factual Q very nearly choked on an optimistic sip of tea. “In any case, it’s dinner. Surely you’ve noticed that I don’t tend to wine and dine those I intend to simply sleep with and leave?”

“You’re not improving my confidence overmuch,” Q told him. “Bond. Go away, find somebody your own age.”

“I don’t  _want_  somebody my own age.”

“Judging by the petulance in that sentence, you need someone,” Q laughed, feeling the way he often did with Bond: curiously, impossibly at ease. They insulted one another on a regular basis in a variety of imaginative ways, but never so much so that Q honestly felt Bond meant it. They were friends.

Bond was very, very good-looking.

Q had not been on a date in a worryingly long time.

If Q’s teenage self could see him now, he would be screaming at the top of his lungs, swearing violently, and probably threatening to hang Q up by the testicles for turning down somebody of Bond’s aesthetic who genuinely wanted a date.

This was such a bad, bad idea.

Bond was  _not_  leaving.

Q rolled his eyes, sighed elaborately, and took Bond’s hand.


	167. The Superhero Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Your fics are brilliant and I have a prompt! A superhero and/or supervillain au would be lovely. Bounce points if its either golden age or silver age inspired. Lots of love
> 
> Ah jeez, I forgot to say that I wanted the superhero and/or supervillain au to be skyfall. Sorry about that, it’s really late! Anyway 00Q or silvaQ would be great, and maybe some bondlock (crossover not the ship) you call never have to much bondlock if you ask me. Sorry about my mistake. – thelegendoflink

"What sort of a name is 007?"

"What sort of a name is  _Q_?”

It was how the pair had met, on a silent London street at 3am. 007 was a typical hero type; large muscles, increased strength and speed, though his main talent appeared to be his incredible healing abilities - he was bloody hard to kill. Q had discovered this after shooting him in the chest.

007 had been rather good about the whole affair; he had, after all, been ‘sneaking around’ as Q had put it.

'Q' meanwhile was a technological marvel, able to interact directly with any piece of technology put in front of him, mostly via a connection point in the back of his neck. He had always had the ability, the connection point just amplified it.

Given that on their first meeting Q wasn’t quite following the city’s laws, the pair had not exactly hit it off. After the first shot to the chest, Q had then had to explain quite  _why_  he was hacking into the national grid. Apparently boredom wasn’t a good enough excuse.

007 could not fly, what he could do was pick up the young man and dangle him by his ankles out of the nearest window until he talked.

"Fine, look it’s only a cover, my partner needed it!" Q said eventually, as the floor looked up at him from very far below. "Please, I didn’t want to, I just… you don’t know him!"

"What’s his name?" 007 grunted, as Q shook.

"Silva," Q replied, "Now for god’s sake,  _stop it_.”

"Silva?" 007 repeated, yanking Q back in. Q nodded, head spinning. 007 paused, considering him; if the boy was telling the truth then he could be an incredible asset. Silva was well known amongst the underground circles. His ability to heal himself rivalled Bond’s own - though an accident a few years ago had left his face permanently damaged. He was also an excellent marksman and computer hacker, though whether that was superhuman remained to be seen.

"Why are you helping him?" 007 asked. He had been careful to disarm the boy fully, having caught him with a wire locked into his head.

Q hesitated for a while, letting out a breath. “I owe him a debt,” he said quietly.

"Help me catch him and I will see what I can do about the charges against you?" 007 offered.

Q looked him up and down, eyes narrowing. “You’re serious? You think you can protect me from him?”

"I’ll do my best,” 007 told him, and took his hand, ready to make them vanish.

\---

Q and Bond were technically-maybe-sort-of in hiding.

It wasn’t either of their faults, per se. Merely that Silva was easily angered, and was definitely not keen on them having decided to go a little bit rogue. Especially Q, who had been with Silva for a fairly long while.

“I knew him before he became ‘super’,” Q explained lightly, hands running over wires, his veins lighting with energy, a patchwork under his skin. “I mean, he was always a complete… I didn’t like him, but he was useful, and we complimented one another’s skill sets rather well.”

Bond’s expression became understandably unsympathetic. “You used one another?”

“Quite,” Q admitted, without apparent concern. “Don’t be judgemental, you have no idea what my circumstances were. So – you’re super strong, very fast, very good shot…”

An attempt at a debonair sort of grin: “Yes.”

“Fairly useless for what we’re going to need with regards to Silva, but an admirable attempt I suppose,” Q sighed. “Even vague understand of technology?”

“It tends to break.”

Q glanced skywards. “Heaven help me,” he muttered. “If you break anything of mine, I’ll destroy you.”

Bond snorted. “You can short a plug, and hack stuff. Forgive me for not being afraid.”

For a moment, Q looked honestly upset.

Then, Bond let out a startled yell as he was electrocuted. “Oops,” Q said aloud, without any real apology, sounding a little bored. “I’d be careful of that. I’m mean when I’m angry.”

“You  _electrocute things_?!”

“It’s a nice little trick,” Q agreed, musing aloud, glancing at his own fingers. “Do I make that clear?”

Bond’s lip curled in a snarl, but he nodded all the same. “I’d be careful how you speak to me, I’m currently the only thing holding back an irritable supervillain,” he groused.

“I’m borrowing your help because you decided to gatecrash an otherwise fairly routine venture on my part,” Q parried drily. “Also, I’m only going to ask this once, but do not move for the next two and half minutes.”

Bond glanced at him in confusion. “Why not?!”

“Because I’m about to run away, and I don’t want you following me,” Q replied brightly. “Tut tut. One should always check whom the true villain is, hmm?”

Bond tried to move, naturally. Q electrocuted him. “I did say,” he pointed out irritatingly. “It’s been a pleasure, 007. If you attempt to trace me, or in any way undermine my forthcoming endeavours, your true identity will be revealed to the world at large. Knowledge is power, Mr Bond. You, Silva – you’re all transparent, if you ask the right questions. Nobody sees me. Nobody catches me.”

Quite honestly, Bond was just confused. “But you…”

“Until we next meet, Mr Bond,” Q told him, and disappeared.


	168. The Silva!Abuser Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well i have 00g fic idea: Q is abused by his boyfriend. Bond discover this and he going to help Q. Abused!Q Pretty please? — bitchlovechocolate

There were none of the usual tells.

Bond had been in the business for too long not to have seen it before, but normally there were signs, no matter how faint. Flinching, bruising, distancing, distrust of physical contact – stereotypes certainly, but stereotypes exist for a reason. Q was, to all external eyes, a sociable – if sarcastic – and perfectly functional human being.

Bond would never have known actually, had it not been for getting approached by the boyfriend in question: his name was Raoul, ostentatiously Spanish, and made the curious decision to outright warn Bond off flirting with the Quartermaster.

 It wasn’t necessarily the warning itself, but the manner. Plenty of people warned Bond away from their partners, it had become pretty much a running joke, but there was no humour in the man’s eyes as he delivered a laudably calm and calculated threat.

Something inside Bond’s gut didn’t like it, and that gut voice had saved his life more times than he cared to count.

In spite of that: yes, it stalking Q home had been fairly immature.

Near enough as immature as being the type of boyfriend to have surveillance sufficient to actually _notice_  a double-oh agent in the shadows, and the type of boyfriend - equally - to be more than capable of subduing and taking direct issue with said agent.

Bond raised an eyebrow at Silva. “This seems a little unnecessary,” he commented drily.

"My partner is the MI6 Quartermaster. I have to be aware of his safety," Silva returned, with the smoothness of venom. "And you are behaving /curiously/, to say the least."

The door: “Fuck, Raoul, the /fuck/ is this?!”

"It appears we have an intruder," Silva commented, as Q made his way in through the various security devices.

"An intru… Bond?! What the hell are you doing here?" Q asked, with genuine confusion.

Bond was fairly unrepentant. “I was concerned for your wellbeing.”

Q, to Bond’s shock, became transparent in a way he had never begun to imagine. “Raoul, this is ridiculous,” Q said quietly, trying to sound level, calm. “Seriously. Let him go, let’s have a nice evening?”

Silva was still in a way that spoke of danger, and Q had a learned tension in his body that Bond half-knew from lifetimes he had seen.

"British law is rather unfortunate in that I cannot shoot you for entering my property," Raoul told Bond tightly, eyes flickering between the two men.

Q raised a hand, placatory, tried to speak; Silva cut him off with a single sharp motion, and Bond saw the flicker, the bend of a body towards escape.

"You’re better than this Q.”

Raoul punched him in the stomach. Bond, unsurprisingly, folded inwards. “Fuck’s  _sake_ , Raoul…”

The man whipped around, and Q was on the floor a heartbeat later, looking half his age and desperately fragile. “Not another word from you,” Raoul warned, delicately dangerous. “Now, Mr Bond, what  _are_  we going to do with you?”

“I would strongly suggest letting the MI6 agent you currently are holding captive  _go back to work_ , along with his Quartermaster, and we need not speak of this again.”

Silva had the mocking grace to pretend to consider it. “Or,” he considered, as an alternative, “you leave. We continue as we have been.”

“And when I tell MI6 that Q is being abused?”

Q and Silva’s expressions were identical. “I’m fine, Bond.”

“Bollocks.”

“Do you accept, or do I shoot you here and now?”

“ _Bond_.”

“Quiet.”

“Fine,” Bond managed, watching the interplay, his body a collection of tense lines. “I understand. All I ask is that you  _please_  do not interfere with his work.”

Q looked like he had been dealt a body blow. Silva, conversely, just smiled unpleasantly. “Quite,” he purred. “We have an understanding. Good day, Mr Bond.”

Bond’s smile was all poison.

\---

Q was very quiet. Too quiet, in fact, jaw tight and body a study in tension. “Q…”

“What is it, double-oh seven?”

The tone of his voice took Bond aback slightly; there was a coarseness to it, a rasping edge Bond didn’t quite recognise, and sheer force of anger that was wholly unexpected. “I was just checking to see if…”

“My work hasn’t been affected,” Q returned, bitter and livid and unapologetic, and Bond regretted every stupid thing he had ever said in his entire life to date. “If that’s all, then you can leave me alone.”

Bond reached a quiet hand out towards Q; he pulled back, eyes darting to Bond’s face, caged and half-desperate. “I’m sorry,” Bond told him.

“You have no idea what you did,” Q returned, voice low, and the rasping made sense now; Bond could see the well-concealed suggestion of makeup and the slight shadow in the base of his throat where a broad thumb had settled. “ _No idea_. I don’t know what to do with you. With me, actually, come to that. I don’t know where I go from here.”

“Leave him.”

Q shot him a look of transparent disbelief. “The mere suggestion that you were interested in me has lost me more than you could know. I can’t keep being hurt, and for as long as he’s happy, I’m not. I have very little doubt that he would not hesitate to simply kill me if he felt I was not appreciating him.”

It was difficult to not feel almost entirely surprised: “So you’re only staying with him out of fear?”

“Yes,” Q returned, without hesitation. “Problem? You can’t do a damn thing about it, and I’ve grown used to living with him. Raoul is good for me, in a lot of areas, and I owe him a lot.”

“Owe him?”

Q’s smile couldn’t quite touch his eyes. “He taught me so much about hacking,” he said softly. “I’m a superb programmer, yes, but my hacking… he’s extraordinary, and when we started out…”

“He was the best thing in the world,” Bond completed drily.

The expression Bond was met with remained utterly murderous. “I’m not a cliché, and I’m not a project.”

Bond nodded in absolute agreement. “But he’s frightening you, he’s hurting you, and you are letting him  _by your own admission_. Q, people like him are everywhere, and as long as you’re going to let him keep doing this, him – and people like him – keep going. He threatened to shoot me because I followed you home, he half-throttled you and I think I probably work out the rest…”

“Can you?” Q asked, with dangerous quiet. “Can you work out the rest? And can you tell me what it feels like?”

Here, Bond knew he was lost. “That isn’t what I…”

“I am doing everything that I can to survive. I have no interest in whether you think I’m doing that ‘well enough’ or not, or if you think there’s a right answer, because I am definitely not dead and I have a decent enough life. I won’t go into hiding. I won’t be twice as frightened as I already am. I just want to live my life, Bond, and I’m doing it however I can and you have  _no right_  to tell me how.”

The tiredness lived in every line of Q’s body, his voice  _pleading_  for some form of mercy that honestly, Bond had no idea how to give. The mercy should have been in making Q’s life more than just ‘liveable’, which appeared to be the extent Q could cope with any longer.

Bond reached out, his fingers brushing the topside of Q’s hand.

He twisted his hand, held onto Bond’s loosely, eyes half-dead. “I just want to help,” Bond said honestly, their tenuous thread of contact remaining, and it  _had_  to be enough.

“Show me how,” Q said with awful quiet, an uncoordinated shrug.

“That much,” Bond said slowly, after a moment, “I can do.”


	169. The Young Hacker!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your writing is gorgeous! Prompt: Bond is called into MI6 to interrogate a young hacker!Q – anon

The kid had his wrists handcuffed and in his lap, had been dressed in MI6 prisoner scrubs, and couldn’t be more than about eighteen if Bond was being generous.

Bond had been contacted because nothing and nobody could get through to the kid. They had tried everything from outright coercion to bribing to threats, and were now at the call-in-somebody-with-no-morals stage who had the necessary conscience lack to batter the kid if required.

He looked like a stiff breeze would take him out.

He had yet to give away a damn thing. He insisted his name was ‘Q’, and that was the sum total of what anybody knew.

“Q?”

The kid looked up on cue. “Hello,” he said, sounding fairly friendly. “How’re you?”

“Delightful. Who are you working for?”

Q blinked, raised an eyebrow. “I’m not.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you.”

“And?”

Bond punched him. Q went sprawling.

Being an agent was not billed, nor would it ever be, a very palatable job. It required suspension of morality, ethics, and often good taste for the good of a larger mass, and justifying that is difficult at best, impossible at worst.

Sometimes, Bond hated his job.

The hacker wiped blood away from his nose, looking wide-eyed and terrified, eyes huge behind his thick-rimmed glasses. “I would place those on the table,  _now_ , and we will continue,” Bond told him calmly.

Q was starting to breathe erratically. “I mean it, I’m  _serious_ , I’m independent – I hack for fun, I’m learning, I…”

Several easy, curt blows to stomach and ribs. Q folded entirely, taking longer to recover, body simply unused to coping with the onslaught. “Q. This continues, unless you give me detailed information.”

“Get your bloody team to check!” Q managed, with livid terror. “I didn’t take any information, I just looked at it. I wanted to know if I could, so I did, and I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get everybody angry, I just…”

Bond lifted him up by the hair, and looked him in the eye.

Terrified, definitely. Bleeding steadily from his nose, glasses crooked – Bond had warned him – and whimpering slightly at the pain in his scalp.

Also, without signs of deviation. Confidence.  _Truth_ , in a way Bond couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Bond dumped him without hesitation, and went out. “Have we checked what he’s saying?” Bond asked outright.

The Q-branch technician looked at him with nothing short of outrage. “If he is able to get into MI6, he would have motive, it is hardly an easy procedure…”

“Just check it,” Bond intervened, fairly sharply.

M watched Bond. Nodded.

“You think he’s telling the truth?”

Bond shrugged. “Would like to eliminate the possibility, before I have to break fingers,” he parried drily, and accepted a cup of subpar tea while Q collected himself in the next room, and the technician busied himself with transparent ingratitude.

\---

Q glanced up with unconcealed terror – unconcealed being a little harsh, given that he was trying valiantly hard but failing quite entirely – when the door opened. “Q?”

“I didn’t do anything, I didn’t…”

Bond raised a hand, trying to shut the kid up, as he kept on babbling. “It’s been shown you didn’t actually damage anything, or steal information,” he confirmed; Q opened his mouth, about to add something, once again stalled by Bond. “But there is substantial evidence that you let somebody else in. Now, one last time: your name, and your reasons for hacking MI6.”

Q had gone completely white.

It took very little to establish that Q would not be giving anything away any time soon. In fact, he seemed primarily concerned with hyperventilating, rather than saying a word.

Bond was having none of it.

Brisk, impersonal motions. Q let out a frantic cry of panic as Bond grabbed his wrist. “Your name.”

“I’m a typist, please,  _please_  not my fingers…” Q keened, screaming hysterically as the smallest finger, then the next along, were pulled back, breaking with a small  _crunch_  that Bond was rather accustomed to hearing.

The boy crumpled, sobbing, trying to disappear and hide his hands at all possible costs. “Your name, or I move onto your dominant hand.”

Q shook his head, crying pathetically, letting out a whimpering noise as Bond reached out. “Your hand. Now.”

The head-shaking was more fervent the second time around, Q’s entire body cringing back; Bond grabbed him, pulling the arm closer, grip mercilessly tight around Q’s wrist, Q himself battling with all he had in him. “ _Your name_.”

“I’m a runaway, I don’t want to go back…”

“Your name, and we will discuss this further.”

“Please,  _please_ …”

“You have five seconds.”

Bond watched the deterioration with detached interest; this was the snapping point, where he was on the verge of collapsing, losing what he held most dear. It was always easiest with those who needed their bodies for something they loved; threaten an active person’s legs or feet, a singer’s voice, a typist’s fingers. Everybody has pressure points, and Q was buckling.

Time was ticking. Bond reached for his finger.

“ _Holmes_.”

A pause. Bond waited.

“My name’s Q Holmes. I don’t… I don’t use my birth name, never did, but it’s Holmes. Please – I don’t want to be associated with them any more, it’s not me, none of it is, but I’m the youngest brother of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes and I  _swear_ , I will destroy all of you if you tell them I’m here and alive.”

Bond released Q’s wrist, and sat in a waiting chair, still terrifyingly impassive as the boy continued to cry, trembling pathetically. “Keep talking,” he said simply, and listened.

\---

Q had rapidly started babbling.

Apparently, in a household of genii, being brilliant was simply insufficient. Extraordinary, even, was not actually good enough; instead, Q was supposed to be trying to make his life work while just plain old brilliant, and his brothers had decided – in their infinite wisdom – to only allow him voice once he had become useful.

In short: Q Holmes was a truly extraordinary hacker.

He also had a ridiculous first name, which Bond deigned not to use out of pure pity.

“So, you ran away from the Holmes household? They’ve been attempting to track you down.”

Q managed a look of surprising acerbity, for one with two broken fingers and minimal remaining dignity. “I’m acutely aware of that, actually, although cheers for the reminder,” he said drily. “I am very good at disappearing, if I have to. The MI6 databases hold the information Mycroft accumulates to track me down, he’s been getting better, keeps filing it away where he thinks I won’t go but I do, and I can, do it every few days now, and nobody notices…”

“Sorry, am I to understand that you’ve been doing this fairly regularly?”

Q mumbled curses under his breath for his own stupidity. “You don’t notice,” he mused, staring at his now-bandaged fingers. “I just slip in… somebody started teasing me, I found something answering back in your databases, and I just followed it in, deeper and deeper… I didn’t know what I’d find.”

Bond watched with concealed curiosity, trying to work out what Q meant, who could have possibly been talking back. “Who could have followed?”

“Somebody who knows my work,” Q replied, without much hesitation. “I mean, there aren’t many people at my level of expertise.”

“I’m glad you’re modest.”

The smile Q shot was wicked, playful. “Nobody gets anywhere in life through false modesty,” he stated simply, before seeming to remember that Bond had broken two of his fingers, and hastily returning eyeline back downwards. “Please, get me away from here, and don’t let my brothers know.”

“Why not?”

“Good evening.”

Bond finally realised that Q had not been terrified, before. Frightened, certainly. But there was nothing in the world comparable to the paleness, the trembling terror, that engulfed Q Holmes the moment he saw Mycroft Holmes in the doorway.

\---

“Little brother,” Mycroft greeted, with an elegant nod. “How delightful to see you. Mr Bond, you can leave us.”

Q glanced to Bond – the man who had been hurting him so very recently, the unstable agent he had no reason to trust – with a pure plea. “Don’t leave me with him,” he said rapidly, tone pressured and immediate. “Do not leave me alone with him,  _please_ , I’ll try and explain everything but don’t leave me.”

“Mr Bond, I hope I will not have to repeat myself.”

Bond glanced between the two of them, and knew full well what his decision needed to be; he remained to one side, allowing Mycroft through, and remaining within the room. Q noticed, and his small smile was wholly relief.

Mycroft seemed somewhat less than impressed. “Point more than amply taken. You always were excellent at summoning allegiances, were you not, Q?”

“Not always,” he returned openly, and Bond could see the stress lines, the parts of him that could not cope with Mycroft Holmes’s interrogations. “Mycroft, let me alone, I’m fine on my own. I will not do the things you keep… the things you want from me, I’m not going to let you or anybody have that kind of hold over me.”

The laugh Mycroft let out was edged and dangerous: “You’ll do as you are told, or I’m certain I can find another delightful agent who will break the rest of you. Poor move going for the fingers, double-oh seven, a typist of his calibre…”

“… will struggle with damaged fingers, but on his non-dominant hand and only two damaged, it will be minimal,” Bond completed. “I can do my job, oddly.”

A small nod of acquiescence. “Understood. I will need to speak to M; her agents are usually not quite so _irritating_. I commend you for your ability to annoy.”

“You’re welcome. As to Q, until I have clearance from M herself, I will not be leaving him.”

Mycroft seemed quietly disbelieving, in an amused sort o way. “Q, you truly are a weapon I have only begun to understand the depths of,” he stated softly. “Such a pity you are intent on damaging your own prospects, and that of those closest to you. I have offered you a great deal…”

“… selling my soul to a man of dubious allegiances and non-existent morals, yes, that sounds like a superb way to spend my time,” Q drawled, hot and angry. “Are you going to stop threatening me? Sherlock? All the rest you keep wanting to do your  _bidding_.”

Bond had accustomed himself to the odd fact that he was clearly being made party to a conversation of truly impressive delicacy, and probably the type upon which balanced many safeties.

All three pairs of eyes darted to the door at the sound of a light knocking.

“I will see you again, Q,” Mycroft told him openly. “Bond, I would consider your next actions carefully.”

He left, without a further word, the room eerily silent.

Q watched Bond, expression guarded and livid.

Bond knew where every camera in the damn room was, who would be listening. He angled himself carefully, deftly.

Grinned at Q in a way that could not be misread, and winked.


	170. The Lingerie Model!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q was a lingerie model when he was younger and Bond finds the pictures in an old magazine at a mark’s house. Later when he’s thinking about them, he finds himself fantasizing about his dorky Q and not the lithe, sexy Q on the magazine – anon

"Found anything?" Q asked over his headset.

Bond narrowly avoided choking after a puff of dust made its way up from a box, honestly in a rather nightmarish mood. “This place can’t have been cleaned in years…” he muttered disparagingly, debating the urge to kick things out of sheer malice.

"I’ll just give Kim and Aggie a buzz shall I?" Q quipped, R snorting at the reference behind him. "You’re there to find arms contracts, not do a health and safety check."

"…Who the hell are Kim and Aggie?" Bond managed, thumbing through the closest box.

Q rolled his eyes. “You don’t watch nearly enough daytime junk TV,” Q told him. “Look, you’ve only got a short window, Bond, kindly find something useful quickly.”

Bond continued, pulling out bits of broken furniture and receipts in copious quantities. Beneath them, buried in a haphazard pile, was a set of old CK lingerie magazines; Bond pulled them out, hoping to find something hidden in or below the stack.

As he did so, the cover of one made him stop.

There was something remarkably familiar about the dark haired, waif like creature looking at him from the front page.

"Q?!" he spluttered.

"Yes Bond? Have you found something?" Q said quickly, sounding very urgent.

Bond just stared in mild awe at his (beautiful) Quartermaster. “No… no, sorry, nothing.”

The man was slim, but muscles well defined (even if photoshop had been employed). He was wearing nothing more than a pair of very tight boxers and an incredibly sexy smirk, the type Bond tended to love wiping off him in spectacular style. There was a sort of androgynous beauty to him, something otherworldly in the way his green eyes shone out from the cover.

Bond could see why the mark had kept it; it was breathtaking.

"Bond? Bond you’ve got ten minutes," Q informed him, snapping him out of his daze.

"Understood."

Hours later, Bond lay in his hotel bed, TV chattering inanely in the background.

His mission brief lay open on the table, giving him too much of a headache to think about at the moment. The day had proved frustrating, but ultimately successful. He had found very little in the house, but the garden had been another matter… Really, there were only so many ways to hide weaponry. Or corpses. Bond would be going home in the morning.

Home to MI6, to paperwork and to an irate Q wanting his (now broken) equipment back.

Q.

Bond closed his eyes, the image of Q on the front cover of the magazine fresh in his mind. He had been tempted to google him, but something told him that all images would have mysteriously vanished. Besides - he didn’t even know the man’s name. But that picture… Q’s perfectly formed body, slender shoulders, a thin trail of dark hair all the way down to an ill-disguised bulge…

Bond groaned, aware that he was getting hard. Thinking about his Quartermaster.

Shit.

Possibly not the most career enhancing mood, but god, that man’s body. Those cardigans were sinful for hiding it. The glasses, the mugs of tea, the way he ran hands through haphazard hair and tugged his cardigan sleeves over his hands when he was anxious and thought nobody noticed, the way stray crumbs would linger in the corner of his mouth, his voice before, during and after tea and/or coffee and the differences therein, the tired circles and clever hands, and…

Well.

Bond came harder than he had in a while, Q’s laugh scorched into him all the while.

\---

Q smirked, glancing through his old back catalogues, all of which he had intentionally released into the wild for the purposes of Bond finding them, and he had been guiding Bond ever since realising the agent was trying to access more photographs.

Bond spent an inordinately long while on one particular pair of briefs. It took very little to establish what the man was doing, out of sight.

Q nodded to himself, and clicked out, heading to his wardrobe.

-

When Q turned up on the doorstep, Bond didn’t really know what to do with himself. He had spent the better part of the entire evening masturbating to the man’s image; having him show up in person, glasses and smirk in place, was almost too much.

“I…”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Even his  _voice_  was enough to spark interest, which was beginning to get rather impressive by Bond’s usual standards. “Yep,” he managed, voice a touch strained.

The door shut. Bond locked it.

He turned around to see Q standing straight, somehow looking entirely composed, coat pooled around his feet and body on display, gorgeous arse and curve of his cock clad in thin fabric.

Bond lost all ability to speak or think, mouth entirely dry.

“Q…”

The man twisted slightly, showing himself from a new angle, and Bond’s own trousers were tenting fully now. “I’m glad you like it,” Q smirked. “Cheeky man, looking me up. I cannot say I’m not flattered, however.”

Bond remained curiously frozen.

“I didn’t expect performance issues,” Q mocked warmly.

Bond almost knocked the man off his feet with force of his kiss.


	171. The Pub!AU Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pub AU! i know normally is “café AU”, but, seriously -that’s too cliché, even for me. so. James Bond is the owner of a irish pub that mainly lives on regular costumers. lately, however, the most unusual computer geek comes in, plugs in his laptop and works himself through the night helped by a couple of quality beers… — fridatwin

It had to be said, Bond couldn’t fault the boy’s choice of beer; he came in, asked for a pint, sat himself down and began generally working his way through the finest of Bond’s collection.

True, his taste in ale was a little dodgier, but Bond could forgive him; he was quiet and he was unassuming, and was something of a regular. They exchanged light talk and laughs from time to time – Bond enquired about work, the boy did the same, they managed to move on from weather into the realms of personal lives – and it was nice, it was companionable.

‘Q’ refused to tell Bond his real name, but promised it was due to embarrassment rather than caginess. “I’d happily tell you my home address and entry passwords to every single electrical item I possess before giving you my full first name,” he laughed at one stage, and Bond snorted back and wished him a good evening; Q nodded, eyes a bright and sparkling green, and installed himself in his favourite corner booth.

Over the evening, Q would have two or three drinks. He would start off with a lager, then either a second or an ale. Bond had no idea why, but accepted it as just a little quirk that did nobody any harm.

“On the house,” he said lightly at one stage, as Q came back for his ale.

Q’s smile had been near-enough blinding.

One week, Q simply didn’t show.

The next week, he managed near-enough no conversation. He didn’t smile any more. The sadness was pervasive and awful, Bond watching him with raw concern as he curled himself up into a tight knot and didn’t respond, didn’t look up from his computer, barely touched his drink.

As the night dragged on, Q barely moved. He didn’t seem to be doing much, either; he just seemed to be an empty space, a hollow shadow of the boy Bond considered an almost-friend.

“Hey,” he said at the end of the night, voice gentle, as Q stared blankly at a screen that had gone onto standby a while ago. “We’re closing up.”

Q glanced up, let out a slight sigh. “Sorry,” he mumbled; he saw the state of his computer, shook his head slightly, shut it with a crisp snapping sound.

Bond watched him, tangibly concerned. “Q. Are you alright?”

Q glanced at him. “No,” he said, very honestly. “I’m not.”

Bond slid into the booth opposite, taking a quick sip of Q’s unpleasantly tepid beer. “Want to talk?” he asked lightly, smirking at Q’s expression as he sipped the man’s beer.

A small smile, and Q began to talk.

\---

Bond pulled them both another pint, given that Q quite definitely needed it. “I’ll get over it, but just… I don’t stay at home for a reason, and I don’t want to do this any more, I don’t… Christ.”

The man continued to drink through his beer. Bond was fairly sure he had to be on his fourth or fifth, which put him ahead of his usual two or three, and was probably to blame for his lucidity. “You don’t have to go home.”

Q looked at him with an expression of naked scepticism. “You don’t know my situation.”

“Nope, but I know nobody should be this upset, not if there’s a way to avoid it,” Bond told him, completely openly. “There are always options. You can stay with me for a while, if you like…”

“I’ll need to overhaul whatever broadband system you’re using,” Q pointed out, snorting with laughter, clearly trying very hard not to crack around the edges. “Sorry, bad joke. I couldn’t impose on you anyway, it’s not fair, you have a life to lead.”

Bond shrugged. “It’s alright, I have a spare room and my broadband currently barely exists, so I wouldn’t argue. What do you do, anyway? School?”

Q glanced at him, expression unfathomable. “You’ve checked my ID, and you still think I’m in school?!”

“Uni, then.”

“I’m twenty-four!”

Bond frowned slightly, confused. “Why do you live at home, then?” he asked. “If that’s not too personal a question.”

“Personal question, but I don’t care,” Q said with a lopsided shrug. “Didn’t have the money to go anywhere, I work as a freelance programmer, so I have impressive cash flow problems if I don’t get any work for a while, it’s not enough to get a place of my own. Plus they’ll kill me if I move out.”

“Why?”

Q shrugged again, letting out a strange cackling sound. “Fuck knows any more, I don’t get it, but that’s that so…”

“You don’t have to, but please know, you always have somewhere if you need it.”

There was something lovely about making Q smile. He smiled beautifully, so beautifully. “Thank you,” he said honestly. “Seriously, thank you. I might yet take you up on it. Don’t know though. I’d have to talk to my family. It will end badly.”

Bond nodded. “Do you want my number? In case you want to call.”

Q smiled, more shyly this time, and nodded.

Bond just hoped he used it.


	172. The Mycroft!M Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your fics are just absolutely wonderful! If you have the time and inspiration, I was wondering if perhaps you could write Bondlock (Q as the third Holmes brother) in which Q gets pissed at Mycroft for taking over the position of M while Mallory is on leave? – anon

Q knocked, and walked straight into M’s office, papers in hand and a Bluetooth earpiece nestled in his ear; he was talking already, ten to the dozen, and didn’t actually look up until he was close to the end of his rant, at which point he screeched like a child and nearly dropped everything he was holding.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “A pleasure to see you too, brother-mine,” he said placidly. “It’s a perpetual delight to inspire such responses from both yourself and Sherlock.”

“What,” Q began, utterly and completely livid, “are you doing here?!”

Of course, Mycroft’s infuriating bloody expression refused to shift. “M is occupied. I am filling in while he is away; it should be no longer than a handful of weeks, at the longest three months.”

Q’s world was ending. “Mycroft, you  _tosser_ , you do  _not_  get to walk into  _my place of work_  and install yourself as my boss. I turned down MI7 to avoid ever having to come in contact with you, you are  _not_ allowed to do this. I refuse it.”

“Regrettably, you cannot simply deny fact.”

Honestly, Q was struggling not to punch him. “Surely there’s a conflict of interest? Conflict of intelligence?! Who let this happen?!”

“Myself and M have been close friends since Cambridge,” Mycroft told him, a little primly.

“ _Nepotism_ ,” Q spat, on a breath. “This,  _this_  is why I wouldn’t let you get me into governmental work. I will never be the type to wind up in power because a friend or sibling got me there.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes slightly, tangibly weary of Q’s histrionics. “Be that as it may, I have a handful of mission briefs that need immediate discussion, and I want updates on current munitions prototypes,” Mycroft told him, so calm, so fucking calm. “I assure you Q, it shall not be for long.”

“Can’t believe that meddling is so much a part of your personality that you cant bear to leave me in my own job for any length of time without getting involved,” Q griped, slouching to the guest chair and piling into it sideways; yes, he was being a child, but it was  _Mycroft_. “Does Sherlock know?”

For a moment, Mycroft actually managed to look confused. “Naturally not, he is still accustoming himself to that fact that we are unable to call you by your given name,” he pointed out, with a touch of chastisement.

“Don’t you dare.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “I wouldn’t for a moment. Now, Q: updates?”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Q sighed, and pulled out papers, determining to make sure he made M’s life hell when he returned, for the simple infraction of letting Mycroft anywhere near MI6.

\---

“This need to be run up to M…”

Q glanced up, eyes abruptly narrowing. “Nope. We’re going over his head. Don’t care what he thinks. Just go for it.”

R raised an eyebrow at her superior, only a little bit unimpressed. “I just feel I should ask, oh esteemed leader – is there a particular reason why you’re homicidal towards our new M?”

“I’m not,” Q told him, as honestly as he humanly could, looking as defiant as he could manage; R didn’t look even slightly impressed, and definitely didn’t believe him. “I’m  _not_.”

“Yes, the more desperate you sound, the more believable you are,” R replied, with deep chasm of sarcasm. “Who is he?”

Q shrugged, sniffed slightly. “Nobody.”

“And yet, little brother,” Mycroft interjected, drawling. “here we are. You, I believe, are the one more accurately labelled ‘nothing’, although I remain one of a select handful who remember your birth name…”

“ _If you continue that sentence_ ,  _I swear I will kill you_.”

Mycroft cut off, but grinned like a mad thing regardless – a very alarming image, all in all. “In which case, a touch more respect would be immensely welcome,” Mycroft informed him calmly. “You are on thin ice, Q. While you may dislike me, I’m afraid you must be professional, and  _all_  budget adjustments need to be verified. Q-branch absorbs quite enough money as it is.”

Q’s eyes narrowed. “We do not ‘absorb’ money; our finances recently have been exemplary…”

“Not quite good  _enough_  though,” Mycroft pointed out, with an unpleasant smirk. “The finance department told me you are all  _haemorrhaging_  money, MI6 simply can’t keep up with your demands.”

R could only watch with mild disbelief as the pair of them parried. “Erm, can we go back to the ‘little brother’ bit,” she pointed out lightly.

Both of them stared at her. There was no doubt, in that second, that they were related. “R, this is Mycroft. Mycroft, this is R. I’m sure you’ll both get on fantastically. Now back to  _my budget_ , Mycroft.”

“You’re not having a budget increase.”

Q’s expression became merciless. “So help me, I will tell Mummy about the begonias,” he hissed.

Mycroft looked deeply shocked. Deeply, profoundly shocked. “Sherlock told you? How could you both betray me like that…”

“ _Budget_.”

“Fine,” Mycroft sniffed, impressively melodramatic, picking up his umbrella almost vengefully. “Consider the budget amended. You will have to explain all this to Mallory, upon his return. Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to telephone Sherlock.”

With that, Mycroft stalked away.


	173. The King of Demons Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it’s not too much trouble, could I get a fic with king-of-demons!Bond and human!Q? P.S, LOVE spending time on your blog! – anon

It lingered under his skin, and he was quite content with it; the creature he was could manifest if he so wished, but there mostly seemed limited point in letting a less-than-benign creature truly access oxygen and breathe out devastation.

Q took the news remarkably well, actually. “I suppose this explains the lack of repentance at my destroyed equipment?” he asked conversationally, as Bond mutated into a seven-foot red-skinned demon with a black crown, made of smoke and devastation. “Superb. King, though. At least you’re not some common or garden minion, that would be disappointing.”

Bond honestly had no idea what to make of that response, so he didn’t try; he smiled instead, nodded a bit, and retrieved his human form while Q watched with fascination and vague repulsion. “Sorry.”

“Just try not to singe the ceiling again next time,” Q asked with a slight sigh, nodding at the once-white patch where said crown of smoke and devastation had hit.

Bond had the good grace – ironically – to look rather sorry for himself. “It’s difficult, I can’t always tell how tall I’ll get. My demon form isn’t precisely predictable.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “How unpredictable are we talking, exactly? And what other chaos can you cause by virtue of being… well. King of the demons?”

A wicked smile. “Things can go my way,” he purred, sliding slightly closer to his lover, eyes shining red for a moment. “Deaths are simpler, lives more fragile.”

“Makes for a lethal agent,” Q nodded, letting Bond’s hands pull him closer. “Ow, by the way, you’re still rather hot.”

“Aren’t I  _just_.”

“No, I mean, you’re going to burn me if you keep going,” Q told him, now beginning to sound rather irritated. “I… this is the weirdest thing that’s happened in a while. Please be careful with demonic traits, in short, and I’m assuming if you’re telling me it means I’m immune from your various ridiculous machinations?”

Bond’s smile moved into an all-out grin. “Q, I’m with you  _because_  you seem immune,” he explained, with a small snort. “You’re with me because you  _want_  to be, not because I’m making you… and you’re very human, and very lovely, and I don’t think I could accidently destroy you like I would most others.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Q breathed. “ _That’s_  why all your past lovers are dead.”

“Thank you for the tact.”

“A  _demon_  is expecting tact?!”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “That’s demon  _king_ , to you.”

“You’re a king,  _only_  when you bring me back your equipment intact,” Q told him primly, looking him straight in the eye, and seeming entirely unphased by the spark of red in his gaze. “Yes, fine, I know, you’re scary. Done?”

Only Q.

Lucifer, but Bond loved him a ridiculous amount.

\---

There were definitely perks to being the boyfriend of smoke-and-devastation demonic Kingship. Part of it was simply that Bond had the gift of both sensing lesser demons, and destroying them; missions became considerably easier when smoke-and-devastation let loose, and Q hummed merrily on the comm system while Bond’s crown singed yet more unsuspecting ceilings and people died with screams and were sucked back down to hell.

“Another one bites the dust,” Q scat-sang, as Bond returned to his human form.

Bond found him tangibly confusing, but Q rather revelled in that. “Yes; mission near enough over, I should be able to return home soon enough. I would say that switching in and out of demon form – especially when it’s a touch unpredictable – isn’t the  _best_  of ideas.”

Q rolled his eyes. “You seem to be doing  _fine_  at the moment.”

“You’re getting him pissed off, I nearly switched mid-coitus,” Bond pointed out.

That had been a particularly weird incident. Bond had been balls-deep inside his lover, Q gasping out a very satisfying orgasm, when Bond had grown to seven foot something and been all bloody smoke and devastation  _again_ ; Q had been unsatisfied, they’d set off the fire alarm, and Bond hadn’t calmed down for another half hour.

“That,” Q said primly, “was not my fault.”

Bond rolled his eyes. “Well it wasn’t exactly my fault,” he pointed out, feeling the itch under his skin of a form that wanted to breathe, wanted to get angry and manipulate the only creature in this world that wouldn’t succumb. Everybody else, he could slide into the mind of and bend around to his will; Q was the most tempting thing in the world, the most intoxicating being Bond would ever be near.

Q smirked. “Well, it sort of  _was_  your fault, you’re the one whose cock set on fire,” he pointed out; it was a good thing Bond had got away from him fast enough, or that would have been rather unpleasant on all fronts.

“You have  _got_  to stop baiting me,” Bond hissed, eyes flashing red, body shaking as his demon form petulantly tried for freedom. “I can’t keep doing this, you idiot, the strain is going to make me go mad. Why.  _Why_  aren’t you susceptible?!”

There was no way at all that Q was going to go into that, not again, given that he didn’t have the faintest idea. “Just one of those things,” he shrugged. “Come home, yes? I miss you.”

Bond smiled comfortably. “So you should, Q,” he smirked. “On my way. Hope you have a flight.”

“Yeah, about that – surely you, oh smoky smokerson, can get home by yourself? Teleportation?”

“ _How many times_  – my demon form is  _not_  a cheap trick. It’s not to be abused just for the hell of it, you idiot.”

Q grinned, cackling with amusement to himself; he found Bond hilarious in moments like this. “Alright, domestic flight it is. You’re in economy. Enjoy.”

“I hate you.”

“See you soon,” Q said brightly, as Bond’s eyes continued to flash, as he smoked gently around the edges.


	174. The Cleverest Holmes Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we know Mycroft is cleverer than Sherlock, but what if Q was actually the cleverest? Maybe they didn’t even know he works for MI6? I reckon when they were little Q saw Sherlock and Mycroft fighting and just thought ‘It’s not worth it, I’ll play dumb.’ Thanks so much, you’re both amazing! – anon

Mycroft discovered when Q ambled into a board meeting, calm as you please, settling himself down with dry commentary –  _forgive me for my lateness, but I can assure you it was important_  – and glancing around, seeing Mycroft.

“Ah,” he said quietly. “Hello, Mycroft.”

To his credit, Mycroft didn’t respond with anything more than: “Good afternoon, Quartermaster. I would appreciate a private discussion with you after this meeting.”

Q dipped his head in concurrence, and engaged fully with the meeting, aware of Mycroft’s gaze on him; Mycroft had not been told about Q’s job. In fact, Q had underplayed it as his being a technical consultant. He played with computers. He was paid fairly well and was somewhere in the government, and Mycroft didn’t bother to look into his role too much. His youngest sibling was perfectly content, and not doing anything too challenging.

Except that he was, and had done so without Mycroft becoming aware. That was a credit to the man’s intelligence in and of itself.

“Would you like to explain?” Mycroft asked drily, when everybody else had filed out.

Q was nothing like what Mycroft knew of him, nothing at all like he remembered of his youngest sibling. “I’m fairly clever,” Q told him, which was possibly the greatest understatement Mycroft had heard in his life. “Well, you and Sherlock were a nightmare with your bickering – I couldn’t bear it, I didn’t want to spend my entire adolescence petulantly proving my point. You were condescending enough as it was, god alone knows how you would have been if it turned out I was more intelligent than either of you?”

“You are  _not_  the most intelligent.”

Q rolled his eyes. “I simply cannot be fussed to prove what is fairly self-evident. The simple fact of my being here is indicative enough. Feel free to harbour your bruised ego, and kindly don’t tell Sherlock.”

“Why not?!”

Mycroft couldn’t quite believe Q’s expression of condescension. “Given your reaction to the revelation of my intelligence, I truly dread to think what Sherlock’s reaction would be, agreed?” he asked drily.

“Good point,” Mycroft conceded, with a dip of his head. “Well, then. I suppose you have work to do?”

Q smirked. “More than you could know. Thank you, Myc, for keeping this quiet. Also, did you want to get dinner for Sherlock’s birthday in a fortnight?”

Mycroft had forgotten, quite entirely. “Yes,” he replied, after a heartbeat’s pause. “That would be an excellent idea. I will forward you my available dates.”

If it was possible, Q’s smirk broadened. “Already booked in, restaurant arranged, Sherlock’s diary cleared and John has been made aware. You will need to deal with his present, however, I’m not doing that for you.”

“Understood,” Mycroft nodded, and slipped away, licking his wounds.

\---

“Happy birthday,” Q said brightly, swanning into Sherlock’s flat in Baker Street with present in hand.

Mycroft was already sat in John’s armchair, and Sherlock looked inches from homicide, which could mean only one thing: Mycroft had told Sherlock, and Sherlock was in the midst of a stellar temper tantrum.

“ _MI6 Quartermaster?_ ”

Q sighed. “Cheers for that,” he shot at Mycroft, who didn’t look nearly as repentant as Q would have liked; in fact, he looked worryingly  _innocent_.

With the sigh of the put-upon, Q turned to Sherlock. “’Lock, there didn’t seem any point in telling you.”

“Are you working with James Moriarty?”

Oh.

 “Sherlock. Of course I’m not working with him. I’m not precisely oblivious to the fact that he has tried to kill you on a number of separate occasions.”

“The man survived shooting himself in the head, which presumably requires some extremely cutting-edge technology, and he used  _every single television in the country at once_. Something, you would think, only the  _Quartermaster of MI6 would be able to…_ ”

Wearily, Q sat himself down on the sofa, blithely unconcerned by Sherlock’s histrionics. “It’s exceptionally simple, if one abandons the melodrama and considers the facts,” he said mildly, interrupting Sherlock mid-rant. “I cannot hope to tell you the answers to his death and resurrection, as I was not there. However, the use of technology simply indicates that he has an exemplary hacker working for him; the lack of a footprint and the scope of the takeover leaves very few options, I am already more than aware of who has been abducted.”

“Abducted?”

“Messy work; not traceable, but poor artistry; working for speed not elegance,” Q explained unconcernedly. “It’s also just  _tacky_. Moriarty’s style.”

“There’s a theory it’s a video transmission from before his death…”

Q rolled his eyes, getting irritable. “Don’t be stupid, you can tell from the haircut, voice, complexion: it was a live broadcast.”

Sherlock and Mycroft both just blinked. “From the complexion?”

“Lines around the eyes that had not existed before and that his attempts at makeup hadn’t hidden, hair dyed to cover the earliest greys…”

Sherlock glanced to Mycroft with tangible alarm. “Quite,” Mycroft said, in simple reply.

Back to Q. “You’re  _clever_.”

“Yes,” Q told him. “Problem?”

The phone rang.

“That would be Moriarty, I assume,” Q commented, as Sherlock reached for the phone; both his brothers snapped their gaze to him, and Q hopelessly glanced between them. “Come on, you  _must_ have realised this flat is riddled with bugs?”

Sherlock stared, answered.

_“Hello, Shirley-boy. Did you miss me?”_


	175. The Magical Realism Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you… Prompt: 00Q magic realism. Q as the genius loci of Skyfall Lodge, who lured James back. The resulting explosion killed/depleted Q, who disappeared/got back to the ruins of Skyfall to hide, where James finds him. Can be touching/tragic. Please and thank you! – LaLunaticScribe

Q was sucked dry when Skyfall was destroyed, but survived all the same. True, he had no idea  _how_  he had survived, but it was also something he simply wasn’t prepared to enquire about any further.

The annoying thing was trying to explain how – after being in the middle of working in Q-branch at the time – he had materialised in the centre of the ruined Skyfall building.

Bond looked like he had gone through a very long day. Such a long day, in fact, that he no longer particularly cared about the extreme weirdness of Q being there. “Welcome,” he said instead, in the doorway of his once-home, while Q struggled frantically for breath.

“Hi,” Q managed, waving weakly. “So how’re you?”

Bond let out a small, snorting laugh. “I watched somebody I respect die, I killed several people, I’m in my nightmare location, and it blew up anyway so I’m not entirely sure what I think about that. Oh, and my Quartermaster’s in the middle, half-naked.”

Q glanced down. “Oh. Oops,” he muttered, and waved a hand across himself; clothing half-heartedly attempted to shimmer into existence, and gave up. “Oh, for  _fuck’s sake_. Can I borrow something?”

It was a testimony to Bond’s pragmatism that he held off asking until Q was wearing his jacket as a strange type of shirt. “An explanation would be excellent.”

“I’m a magician, I live here, you bombed the place, it fucked up my magic.”

Bond blinked, and let out a weary sigh. “Alright then. You’re magic. Excellent. This day just keeps getting better. Can you bring her back to life?”

Q’s expression was as merciful as he could make it. “I currently can’t conjure my own clothing, do you really I’m set up for a resurrection?” he asked, halfway mocking, halfway apologetic. “No, I need… I need help, Bond. I need to relocate to somewhere static before this kills me.”

“Before  _what_  kills you?” Bond asked, sounding the closest to hopeless Q had ever heard the infamous agent. “Really, I’m not sure I can handle another one at this stage.”

The apparent-magician looked deeply unimpressed. “Take me to a location I can centre myself,” Q asked, firmly, “otherwise this will all get very ugly very quickly. I’m sorry to do this to you, but I don’t trust myself to drive.”

“Why?”

Q demonstrated through the simple act of picking up a rock. It stayed in his hand for a moment, before literally sinking through it, Q’s hand rendered unsolid. Bond vaguely wondered how the suit jacket was staying in place, and decided not to question. “Again – somewhere I can focus.”

“I’m waiting for retrieval, no modes of transport left,” Bond told him simply, indicating around at the wreckage of his once home. “I’m afraid we’re stuck.”

For a moment, Q was quiet. “Please forgive me for this,” Q asked softly, and – before Bond could respond – was kissing him. Everything in Bond’s body and soul shifted all at once, bending him towards Q, singing through motion and trapping the younger man, shielding him.

He staggered back. “Fuck. What just…”

“I needed something static, or the rest of the earth will start to swallow me up. You’re it. I’m now bound to you forever and always, et cetera.”

Understandably, Bond looked fairly horrified.

Q grinned.

\---

Bond could definitely think of a good few things he would prefer to have happened in the previous handful of days, and shortly after the death of a woman he had deeply respected and cared for (in his own way, at least) came the unbelievable fact that he was now bound to his Quartermaster in every sense conceivable.

On the bright side, Q was no longer translucent. Bond couldn’t quite say it was a relief, but it was an improvement.

The retrieval team had picked up Bond, and a fully-clothed Q. Once the latter had attached himself to the former, his powers came back to him, inch by inch; his first priority had been the clothing, and Bond had abruptly found himself very tired.

“Ah,” Q said simply. “Yes, small thing: me being too magicky will probably result in you passing out.”

Bond honestly didn’t have anything much to say to that, other than a shrug and a small noncommittal sound. It was fair to say he had reached saturation point. A fairly large part of him had acknowledged that he may well have managed a full-blown psychotic break, and honestly, he was ok with it.

Q wouldn’t stop babbling, however, which was dramatically reducing the man’s life expectancy (even if he hadn’t realised quite yet).

“If you don’t shut up, I might have to shoot you.”

Bond couldn’t quite believe the  _shock_  in Q’s eyes, the  _hurt_. It was like looking like at a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy with oversized glasses and floppy hair and Bond’s heart was  _aching_  in his chest at the sight of him.

Which was the point at which he realised that he was going to  _kill_  Q for managing to make them inextricably linked forever and always.

“Don’t be so petulant. I would have died, otherwise.”

Bond glared at him. “I’m now attached to you, and if I’m too far away, you’ll die. Yes?”

“If you’re on distant missions I’ll be very weak. If you die, I’ll have to re-centre very quickly. It’s not exactly ideal for me either,” Q grumbled. “I chose an ancient building on the understanding that it would last a long time; it was a  _listed building_ , it should have stayed on indefinitely!”

A thought occurred: “How old are you?”

“Old enough to be both efficient and innovative,” Q replied, semi-apologetically. “So… yes, I’m older than you. Quite a lot older than you, actually.”

“How much?”

Q tried for a smile, that wound up a bit of an apologetic grimace. “I lost count.”

Bond felt his brain revolt violently against that idea. Tried to deny it internally, failed, and just decided enough was enough. He needed sleep, several large whiskeys, and a decent orgasm.

The final thought was punctuated with a flashed image of Q, across his retinas.

Without warning, Bond just let out a snarl of livid fury – Q jumped out of his skin – and put a fist near enough through the car door.


	176. The Contagion Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you do a fic based on the film contagion with Bond/Q – anon

MI6 had been placed into full lockdown, and the entirety of the staff was on panic stations.

Supposedly, they were safe, in full quarantine; all the same, they desperately needed to  keep the virus away from them so that they could continue with MI6 operations worldwide, trying to develop and indeed distribute a vaccine.

Q was remarkably calm about it all. Either they would die, or they would not, and Q was content to do whatever he could to save as many people as possible. The UK was better than most for the virus at present, but London was congested enough to mean if it hit, it would hit with a damned vengeance.

“Double-oh seven?”

“I’m hoping I’m immune or just lucky, because there are a lot of dead people here,” Bond replied drily.

Bond was in China, within a WHO unit trying to stop renegade black market groups from hoarding vaccines. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if you’re immune, you seem to resolutely survive everything else the world has to offer,” Q commented, scrolling through information from CIA units, all of whom were concentrated on finding mass-producible versions of the established vaccine.

Q coughed.

Everybody in Q-branch glanced over.

Bond was very, dangerously quiet on the other end. “Q?”

“I’m fine. I coughed once. I think it’s fair to say paranoia is rife,” he snorted, shaking his head at the stupidity of them all; this kind of ridiculousness was not helping the overall atmosphere of panic, and frankly, everybody needed to calm down.

Of course, Q was quietly terrified.

“James, please be safe.”

Bond chuckled lightly, because of course he did. Bond always laughed in the face of everything he came across, danger and death and pain, he always laughed and was unashamedly bragged about his own durability.

We have a breach. Lock down Q-branch.

Q’s face paled. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going into full lockdown.”

“Q?”

“Not right now, James,” Q said urgently, pressing buttons rapidly, heart jumping in his throat as he grabbed at a handheld syringe, not unlike a diabetes monitor. “Are we shut down? Everybody, test yourselves now, I want to know if anybody’s infected and this will not spread, we will be alright, the vaccine should be coming to us soon. Please, nobody panic.”

Ironic sentiment, Q mused, and tried to not pass out through sheer panic as Bond’s voice increased in tempo, and Q began to consider that maybe – and it was real now, it was in their home and in their lives too immediately – he would actually die.

“Love you,” Q said quickly, and let out a small sound at the sight of the reading on his test strip.

\---

Q had placed himself in his own separate isolation unit – in other words, his office – and had informed any other members of staff who suspected an infection to join him, while the rest disinfected everything in sight and prayed, and tested themselves every half-hour.

There was no word from Bond.

Above and beyond anything else, Q just prayed he was alive. More than anything, he just wanted Bond to be alive.

It was twelve hours or so before Q started to notice symptoms.

The coughing came first, along with a throttling sense of terror that pervaded everything around him; the panic was more problematic than anything else, given that he started hyperventilating near enough immediately with the anticipation of dying. “James, can you hear me?”

No answer. No  _bloody_  answer.

“R?”

“Yes, supreme leader?” R replied brightly.

God, Q was going to miss her. She had been a brightness in the general chaos and darkness around them, the warmth when Q was impossibly cold and the branch were all angry and desperate and the minions were quietly crying.

Q let out a slow breath. “Anything yet?”

R’s voice was quietly apologetic. “Sorry love. How you feeling?”

Only R ever had, or ever would, address him as ‘love’.

“Not… not brilliant, I have to admit,” Q said quietly, as his heart hiccupped slightly in his chest, and he tried to come around to the awful realisation that maybe he would never speak to his lover again before he died.

He didn’t want to die. Q really, really didn’t want to die.

The last few hours would be spent working, of course they would, until the moment he was absolutely incapable of doing so, and then a little bit longer. And then quite a lot longer. Infinitely longer. Until he could pretend he was no longer dying and that this was fine, this was just the exhaustion of too many days working in a row, and he’d fall asleep behind his desk as he sometimes did and it would be alright, it would all be okay, Bond would wake him up.

Q could feel exhaustion trickling out of his fingertips, and tried not to cry.

Eventually, he was half-choking and couldn’t breathe and couldn’t stop the panic thrumming through his blood and again, and again, and again, he found himself on the floor and fuck,  _fuck_ , he didn’t want to die, and not like this,  _not like this_.

“Q?”

Excellent. Of course it was Bond’s voice, and all Q could manage was a slightly frantic whimper. “Hi,” he rasped.

“I’m here love, I’m here.”

Q believed him quite entirely, and let his eyes slide shut.

-

There was a heart monitor.

There was  _light_.

“Hello,” Bond said again, and this time, his voice was close and his skin was warm, and Q could see, and Q was alive.

Q grinned, half-manically. “I’m not dead. You’re not dead.   _Awesome_.”

And with that, he passed out again, Bond’s laugh rumbling in his head.


	177. The Q Interrogation Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello! Q gets detained on suspicion of working with enemies and giving them information, M doesn’t know about his relationship with James and asks Bond to interrogate him? Things get heated, violent etc? having a rough time with revision right now, could really do with some angst! thank you for the wonderful fics i read them daily xxx – anon

Given that his vision was blurred from a lack of glasses and a stellar headache, it took Q a full few minutes to recognise his interrogator. Definitely interrogator, given the handcuffs and blurred stand of unfriendly-looking shiny things.

It was the eyes, ultimately. Nobody else in the world had eyes like that.

"No," he shook his head, retreating backwards. "Bond…"

Bond stayed terrifyingly still. “You have been releasing information to the Chinese. Correct?”

Q’s jaw dropped. “No. What? What is this about? James, come on, you know me…”

Bond held up a hand. “Anything that has transpired between us prior to this point is no longer of interest or reference. You are known as Q, and you are under suspicion of being a traitor to the Crown. There seems little point in patronising you – you are more than aware of what we do to traitors.”

Q’s breath was coming a little uncertainly, nervously.

There were so few options left to him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said softly, and tensed, waiting for the inevitable punch; it caught him in the solar plexus, and Q doubled up, bound hands lifting him straight back up again. “Fuck. Bond, this is absurd.”

“I don’t want to this to be unnecessarily unpleasant.”

Q let out a short cackle. “You punched me first,” he said with a slight catch of a sob; this wasn’t fair. “James, please. You know me, you know wouldn’t do this, to you or to anybody, I’m not like that. Youknow that.”

“I slept with you, that doesn’t mean I know you,” Bond returned, with lacerating dryness; Q flinched as though punched. “I know somebody who would never even been suspected of this, let alone being interrogated, and so…”

There was a knock on the door.

Bond rolled his eyes. “I’m not emotionally compromised,” Bond called, sounding spectacularly unimpressed. “Leave me to it, I will extract any information necessary.”

Q watched him, eyes wide. “Why you? Why the hell would you want to be involved in this kind of interrogation, why the fuck does it have to be you? Do you really care so little for your fucking conquests?”

The punch nearly sent him sprawling, and it was not to do with the interrogation.

It was at least gratifying to know Q had him riled, he considered, as Bond started to shout questions.

\---

Q hadn’t slept in four days, and was fairly certain he was starting to hallucinate. Pain was radiating from his temples downwards – the headache was spectacular, and had started around the two-day mark and was yet to go – and Q was now pissed off, humiliated, and in a fair amount of pain.

“Tell me truth, and this stops.”

Bond’s voice had become a constant, naturally, and Q wanted nothing more than to chop the man’s balls off by now. He’d started it, after all. “I have. You don’t want to hear it. Now what?”

Q’s voice was a rasp and he had no idea if it had been properly audible, but he was slapped out of sleep again and swore with surprising vigour.

“Bond…”

The voices were very far away, and were not addressing him, which meant Q didn’t care. Instead, he passed out, a little voice at the back of his head going  _ha_  at the fact he was successfully falling asleep without Bond noticing.

-

Q woke up in Medical.

“That’s new,” he said aloud, blinking. “It’s over with?”

M, who was stood at the end of the bed, nodded. “Your branch worked ceaselessly for the duration of your incarceration. I hope you understand why this was necessary.”

Honestly, Q had no qualms with M. This was the inevitable consequence of being in a faction of MI6; M had been interrogated before, Bond, everybody was interrogated by their own side and others, and it was for everybody’s safety. Q himself had been responsible for the unnecessary interrogations of several staff members.

The only person Q could not forgive was Bond.

Bond had not needed to become involved in that way. Bond had  _not_  needed to make this personal, to destroy whatever they had had together. It was cruel, it was unnecessary, and Q  _hated_  him for it.

Of course, Bond visited him in Medical.

“Fuck off.”

“I had to,” Bond continued, blithely ignoring the near-enough snarling of anger from Q, who just wanted him to  _shut up_. “It’s the job, as you know, I…”

Q looked up at him sharply. “For  _fuck’s_  sake. It didn’t have to be you. You didn’t have to get yourself involved. So just  _stop_ , I am beyond livid and I just don’t want to hear it, Bond, I don’t care.”

Bond blinked. “I though…”

“What, exactly?” Q interrupted. “That I’d understand? That I’d forgive you?”

Bond nodded.

Q just shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “I can’t. Not for this. Now please,  _please_  go away.”

There was nothing else he could do; Bond left, unable to prevent the feeling of mild resentment, and utter lack of understanding.


	178. The Trafficked!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love your writing :)! I have a prompt: Bond is escaping (via car) a mission that concerned something like human trafficking and doesn’t notice until he’s off the scene that he has a stowaway (Q) hiding in the back seat of his car - a collar around his neck or something revealing what he was. – anon

_Really 007, must you destroy everything we give you?_

Bond rolled his eyes, hands on the wheel as he practically turned the car over in an attempt to get out; the mission had gone explosively, of course, and he was really rather hoping that nobody was following him.

"Doing my best," Bond replied; his headset was growing incredibly irritating, as it tended to during stressful missions.

_Bond, I’m picking up another life sign in your general vicinity._

The tension bubbled along Bond’s spine. “Following?”

_No, closer than that, Bond, there’s someone in the car._

Instantly, Bond had his gun out; he span around, and spotted a figure.

It was a damn good thing Bond saw the collar in time, as his finger itched on the trigger; instead, he returned attention to where in the hell he was driving, and pulled over abruptly.

The kid in the back let out a startled sound, and an almost inaudible whimper.

Bond didn’t have the time or inclination to be gentle about matters: “Who are you?”

“Q,” the boy answered, without hesitation, and Bond couldn’t help but be mildly surprised that the boy actually spoke English. “Please don’t shoot me sir, I didn’t want to cause trouble I promise, I just want to get out, that’s all, I’ll go, won’t say anything I swear, just please don’t take me back, please don’t take me back…”

Bond raised a placatory hand. “Calm down.”

_Bond, what in god’s name is going on?_

Naturally, Bond growled in annoyance and yanked the offending earpiece out of his ear, stuffing it in his pocket with a small surge of satisfaction. “Q, did you say? Don’t have a name?”

“No sir, they call me Q, that’s it, I…”

“Shut up,” Bond snapped, and the kid flinched, but duly did precisely as he was told. “Good. I don’t intend to take you back, and I’m assuming you’ve been held by the people that own that building?”

Q nodded, and didn’t say a word, which was probably for the best.

Bond let out a slow sigh.

It was going to be difficult. A good proportion of those being held at the complex he had just left had been shot by those in charge; removing evidence, in short. Q must have escaped before they killed everybody else.

Frankly, it would have been simpler to dump him somewhere and get back to the UK as soon as possible, but Bond was not a complete bastard and the kid wouldn’t last ten minutes on his own. He wore scabs and scars and bruises across his body, and Bond knew precisely what the trafficked children had been used for. On his own, he was sentencing a child to death.

Q was watching him with tension drawn through every inch of him, holding back tears admirably.

Bond retrieved his earpiece. _… Bond, are you there or not?!_

“Sorry ma’am,” Bond managed, interrupting M’s stream of words; she was angry, unsurprisingly, and he could hear a very irate Boothroyd in the background. “I have a spare. One of the trafficked boys got out alive. Seems to be English judging my language and accent. I’m taking him to the UK.”

M was silent for a moment.  _A child is a liability on a mission of this nature._

“It’s a death sentence if I leave him,” Bond replied immediately, while Q continued to watch him, body trembling slightly. “Ma’am?”

_Received and understood, you will have a spare ticket waiting for you when you get to the airport. You will need to ensure that the child does nothing to compromise the mission_

Bond nodded, and released a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. Q equally seemed to calm a little, unsurprisingly.

_… Bond, you have incoming._

\---

Bond glanced out of the back, and couldn’t help but nod; there were definitely people on their way, and none of them looked particularly impressed. “Get down,” Bond told Q sharply.

Q did as bidden. “I can shoot,” he stated, a little randomly. “If you want me to… I don’t know…”

_Don’t even think about it_ …

Thus, Bond didn’t think about it; instead, he just handed the gun over without an instant of hesitation. Definitely no thought involved. The stowaway kid had a gun. Boothroyd sounded considerably less than impressed.

The stowaway kid was actually a very good shot, Bond mused, watching Q rattle off rounds with surprising ease; he knew his way around a gun, something Bond resolved to ask about later. “Ammo,” Q said quickly, and Bond chucked him over another cartridge.

In the interim, Bond pressed his foot to the accelerator, and sped the hell away from the people who were trying to kill him, and would  _definitely_  kill Q if they found him. “Shouldn’t be long,” he told Q, swerving the car in terrifying motions. “I’ll get us out to the airstrip, and we should have a plane waiting for us.”

Q twisted back to look at Bond, and he could see in the rear-view mirror that Q was unbelievably shocked. “You’re sure?” he asked, voice half-catching, gun in hand.

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have to,” he said drily.

To Bond’s amusement and mild worry, Q simply lifted the gun to aim at Bond’s head, and didn’t say a word; Bond lifted his hands in mock surrender.

_Bond, this is one of the most moronic things I’ve seen you do in my tenure_

“Make sure the plane is ready for us both,” Bond replied, beautifully insubordinate. “Thank you kindly.”

They had lost the other car, and Q’s entire body seemed to have deflated entirely. He slid down the seats, curling up into himself slightly, and – very suddenly – he seemed utterly exhausted, every bruise suddenly seeming more visible. “Q?”

“M’fine,” he said quietly, suddenly less audible and far more damaged. “I just… tired. Really tired.”

Bond nodded. There was little to be said; he just continued driving, and waited to get Q home.


	179. The Agoraphobic!Q Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has Agoraphobia and hasn’t left his flat for five years. Bond moves in to the building across from him and sees the younger man through the window. – anon

The boy was young, beautiful, and must have been painfully alone.

Bond wasn’t sure quite what it was that had made him come to that conclusion. Perhaps the fact that he never left; day or night, Bond could see the shadows, the suggestions of a human being.

(Not to mention that MI6 screened everything and everybody in the vicinity. Bond understood that he had severe agoraphobia, and refused to leave. Shopping was delivered to his door, what few friends he had visited once in a while. Mostly he remained on his own with his computers – of which he reportedly had several – and kept to himself).

Bond wasn’t quite sure what compelled him to cross the road, to work out the flat number, tap on the door.

The boy opened it, glanced Bond up and down, glanced the corridor up and down. “Yes?” he asked.

“I live across the street,” Bond explained, as charmingly as he was able. “I thought I’d come and say hello, introduce myself. Bond. James Bond.”

The boy blinked. “Q,” he replied simply, and Bond could see the tension in his body creeping higher, eyes darting quicker. Only incrementally, but good god, Q truly was horrendously agoraphobic. “Come in. Tea?”

Bond did as bidden, wondering quite how Q was so trustworthy. “Coffee.”

“Of course,” Q said, with a quiet smile, far more at home now he was in his space; Bond glanced around, taking it all. “Take a seat.

Q disappeared into presumably the kitchen. Bond opted to look around, rather than sit as directed; the boy’s flat was fascinating, a collection of not-junk that could have passed for such, technology and wires spilling in perfect concentric circles, organised chaos. “You work with computers, then?” Bond called.

Q poked his head around the door. “Yep. Milk or sugar?”

“Neither,” Bond replied with a smile, and Q’s head retracted once again; he heard a muffled call ofbiscuits? to which he replied with a wholehearted yes.

The young man appeared a few minutes later, mugs in hand, and a packet of biscuits, demonstrating an impressive degree of coordination in managing to drop none of the above. “Alright,” he continued. “So. Bond, James Bond. Tell me about yourself. What actually brought you over the road? I somehow reckon you haven’t knocked on everybody’s door just to say hello.”

Bond debated which lie to go for, and landed on: “I was laid up in bed for a few days, didn’t look like you left at all – I had a friend who was the same, very bad agoraphobia,” he explained, with a touch of apology in his tone.

Q raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “Yes. Agoraphobia,” he confirmed after a moment. “Haven’t left the building in five years.”

“Five?” Bond repeated, with pure shock.

The younger man looked at him longer, sighed. “Look. You’re really quite a shitty liar. Feigned shock notwithstanding, you know full well I’m an agoraphobic, and I know full well that everybody in the building opposite works for the secret service. I’m not going to ask questions, pry, or do anything else. You all have reports on everything in a five-mile radius, me included, so please – don’t patronise me? You seem decent, it’s annoying to watch you lie.”

Bond could honestly say he hadn’t been so profoundly shocked for a very long while.

\---

Bond was actually very fond of Q.

They started to meet fairly frequently. Whenever Bond was in the country, he would come and visit Q; they would share tea, Bond would bring cake and biscuits, and they got on like a house on fire.

No matter what Bond said, Q utterly refused to leave the house.

He was very nice about it. Politely declined offers to come to Bond’s, to even come out into the corridor. Bond wanted to help him, to show him that after  _five years_  he should possibly be considering getting  _out of the house_.

In the end, neither of them had much of an option.

-

“ _Bond, get out of there_!”

Bond just did as he was told, without a heartbeat of hesitation. He listened to Q’s voice, and without question, did as he was told.

There would be questions later. For now, Bond was keen on not dying, and so promptly ran like hell.

He avoided death by about forty-two seconds, not that anybody was counting, but one who  _definitely should not have been_  and so Bond didn’t try to think about it too much. He was more concerned with trying to explain to his handling team quite why he had trusted a disembodied and unrecognisable voice over  _their_  orders, regardless of whether it had led to his survival.

At no stage did Bond reveal whose voice it had been.

-

Q looked suitably wary when he opened the door. “I…”

“You have ten seconds.”

Bond looked at his watch.

“I’m a computer tech and hacker, I hacked MI6 years ago, there are linked systems to these buildings and I got curious. I’ve never done anything illegal, and only wanted to save your life given that you…”

Bond held up a hand, still looking at the watch. Q looked at him. He didn’t look scared, impressively. Mostly he was just understandably extremely concerned that he was about to die a rather inauspicious death.

Instead, Bond just smiled. Very slightly.

“You have hidden shallows, ‘Q’,” he stated drily, with a dash of very familiar humour. Q began to relax a little, exponentially more once Bond had stepped into the flat and Q had closed the door behind him. “So how long have you been watching me?”

Q went ever so slightly pink. “Since the outset,” he admitted. “There are cameras near enough everywhere, if you work hard enough, and MI6 do most of the work for me; it’s a case of entering their hardlined systems which are mostly here  _anyway_  which is how I realised you’re  _all_  agents, I expect I’m only still here because nobody can get me to leave…”

“You can calm down now,” Bond pointed out playfully, the smile turning into an all-out grin at Q’s expression of petulance. “Coffee, by the way.”

Q flicked him the finger, and went to put the kettle on while Bond looked over the computer equipment again with quiet, amused disbelief.


	180. The Q's!Neighbour Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealous/protective!Bond & oblivious/in-distressQ please? Some charming guy (a neighbor?) is courting Q, he finds it flattering at first but quickly politely declines his advances. He thought it done with, until one evening the guy ambushes him. Q tries to defend himself with some moves Bond taught him but the man is stronger than he looks and equally sick.. (like he’s persuaded that Q ‘belongs’ to him). The end is up to you! (masochistic!me loves the endings sadistic!you always comes up with <3) – anon

Q didn’t like Rob much. Rob had been lovely to start off with – kind, friendly, intelligent – but had rapidly degenerated.

“… that’ll do for today,” Bond said, smirking as Q panted.

He was knackered. Bond had been roped in to teach him self-defence, as Q knew full well he could barely defend himself from a hamster, let alone anything more dastardly. Q was hardly lacking in strength, but had sod-all technique.

Q nodded disconnectedly, and yawned. “Yep. Sod this. Going home,” he mumbled. “Night, Bond.”

“Ever intending to call me by my first name?”

“No,” Q replied lightly, and tried to keep some semblance of dignity. He was fairly sure that he had pulled muscles that hadn’t existed before Bond had started teaching him. Everything hurt. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Bond returned, with a light salute. “Travel safe, Quartermaster.”

In retrospect, Q wished he had asked Bond to walk him back. After the past couple of weeks, Q’s technique had reached the stage where he should have been able to fight Rob off, when he was cornered by the man.

“Q…”

Rob was too close, too intimate, slamming Q against the brick wall. “That’s more than enough,” Q hissed. “Oddly enough, I do practise self-defence. Get away from me.”

“Why on earth would I hurt you? You know me, Q…”

“… You’re not listening to me,” Q reminded him, body rippling in readiness. He could definitely fight, he could definitely take this guy. “Away from me. Now. Final warning.”

Rob leant in, and Q started moving.

Q was tired. He knew he was too tired to try and take the man, but he had hoped against hope that adrenaline would get him through and – apparently – he was very wrong indeed.

“Come with me, and don’t argue, or I’ll throttle you,” Rob told him politely, and started to haul Q towards his front door.

Rob lived on the ground floor. It took a distressingly small amount of effort to wrench Q in, and slam the door shut.

\---

There was a fairly long stretch that Q didn’t remember enormously. He was unconscious for parts of it, after Rob hit him on the head with what – in retrospect – Q was fairly sure had to have been a chopping board.

The next Q knew, he was being held hostage in Rob’s flat.

Outside, MI6 had battened down the hatches, and had megaphones. Q had a headache and the realisation that he may be assaulted in the imminent future; he tried to keep the fear just about tempered, and waited with his hands tied behind his back and eyes following Rob’s pacing.

“… and I’ll have you, they have to understand that I…”

Q let out a small sigh. “Rob, this is going too far…”

“You fucking think?!”

Rob is panicking, tangibly panicking. This is where it all begins to get frightening; anybody who gets this panicked in a hostage situation will become a liability, and Q really does not want to die. “Rob, let me go now, and…”

“… and they’ll shoot me or lock me up, don’t patronise me, Quartermaster,” Rob snaps back. “You know that as well as I do, so shut the fuck up.”

Q shuts up.

The phone rings.

“… we want to negotiate for Q’s safe release…”

“I keep him, I won’t harm him,” Rob is saying urgently, while Q schools his muscles to relax, his body to calm. “He’s mine, he will always be mine.”

M sounds suitably unamused, Q realises, as he starts to wriggle his wrists experimentally; Rob is an accountant by nature, definitely not somebody who knows nearly enough about the realities of how to bind somebody, hurt somebody. He knows the money and logistics. He knows the other side of it.

Q knows – by proxy – how to handle terrified agents and more terrified captors who have let everything go too far, too fast.

“… I would like to ascertain that Q is alive and well…”

Q flinches violently as the phone is rammed by his ear. “Hello?”  
“Q?”

“All fine, doing my best,” he says, as brightly as he can. “I…”

Rob pulls the phone back, hangs up, and slaps him around the face.

“Ow,” Q says quietly, and watches Rob carefully.

They watch one another in silence. Q indiscernibly continues to ease his hands free.

“This has gone too far,” he tells Rob softly. “Please. End this now, before it goes too far. Talk to them. I’m safe and unharmed, you know they’re not going to shoot you. Arrest you, yes, but you won’t die. Rob – this will have to stop in the end. Stop it now, before it goes too far and there’s no way out.”

Rob looks awfully, horrifically young; so much so, in fact, that Q is inches from feeling truly sorry for him. “I can’t take this back,” he says, somewhat pathetically. “Q… this was all for you, it always was for you.”

There is an edge in his tone that makes everything in Q’s body abruptly, violently contract, because Rob just used the past tense and that’s not good, that is definitely not good. “Rob…”

Q tries, a little more desperately, to pull his hands free.

Rob pulls out his gun.

\---

Q lets out an abrupt gasp, and wonders how he could have been punched in the stomach when Rob is still several feet away.

Pain is not a very long way away after that point.

It is long enough, though, for adrenaline to shoot Q forward and tackle Rob’s hands, his wrists. Tackle the gun out and try to prime it with the pain turning from acute to blinding to impossible, fingers shockingly weak as they try to defend and fight at once.

Bond’s voice sounds in his ear. Pressure points and speed and angles and triangles and chokes and holds, nothing makes sense and Bond’s talking too quickly, it hurts, echoes and reverberates.

Rob is sobbing. Just sobbing. “I’m sorry, Q, I…”

“Fuck you,” Q snaps; Rob is becoming limper by the second, as he cries and remains pathetic, as though Q will be even vaguely sympathetic. “You fucking…”

Shot me, almost, but doesn’t quite manage to fall from his lips.

Instead, the door splinters inwards.

Q has a horrible feeling he is about to be shot; there is no way of knowing who is injured, who is who, what in the ever-loving fuck is going on and really, if gunshots have already been fired then in would be conceivable that they’d choose to remove threats first.

And Q is holding the gun, while Rob sobs.

Really, Q has to concede that he is confused, and he is in a lot of pain. A mounting and quite severe degree of pain, and he knows full sodding well that nothing should be that wet or hot or slick across his torso, and his vision is blurring.

Put down the gun, now, hands where I can see them, hands where I can see them…

Q has no idea what is going on.

Everything is screaming, now, everything is screaming. Q’s hands won’t move. He can see them in his peripheral vision, his utterly wasted hands, but they will not respond and Q knows that, he knows he is going to die like this with a gun in his hand and people screaming, his entire brain screaming.

“DO NOT SHOOT.”

Bond. Ha. Now, of course, he speaks at a vaguely normal speed. Idiot. He really should learn to talk at a normal pace.

Rob is trying to retrieve the gun. Q holds onto it like his life depends on it (it does), which is hard when fucking lying on top of the man and he is bleeding into the floor, into Rob.

“Q…”

A hand grabs him by the scruff of his neck, hauls him away bodily from Rob, still holding onto the gun with lethal desperation. “No,” he mumbles, barely breathing.

(Fuck, his stomach hurts).

“Q, are you alright?”

To his interest, Q cannot even laugh, cannot comment. There is nothing he can do. He just continues to hold onto the fucking gun even though it’s still liable to get him shot –

\- there are two gunshots, and more screaming –

and Q shakes violently where he sits, Bond standing inches in front of him, watching him with undisguised concern.

(Q is no longer the only one bleeding into the floor).

There are many clever, witty, brilliant things Q briefly considers saying.

Instead – almost smugly – he passes out.


	181. The Abused!Omega Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love your fics :) - Omega!verse fic where Bond is sent somewhere to assassinate some horrible crime boss or whatever, but instead finds the mark’s omega (Q). – anon

The door crumpled with little effort under his foot, shiny Italian leather now scuffed to pieces. His Walther preceded him, scanning the room. If the mark had been there, he was long gone now; the room was a shambles. Someone had clearly left in a hurry.

Bond turned to go, when he heard a small whimper.

Instantly Bond turned back with gun extended, scanning the room once again for whatever he had missed.

It was the smell that gave it away. A bonded Omega, young, and only just out of heat. Pulling aside the table, Bond found him.

He couldn’t have been any older than sixteen, shivering in fear and shock as Bond looked down at him. The source of his discomfort was obvious – a tight cage, the Omega’s skinny limbs pressed against the bars.  
“Name?” Bond asked, brisk but not unkind, still wary of potential hostiles.

The Omega stayed silent, lips tightly sealed. “English?” Bond asked, and the boy nodded hesitantly, body curling away from Bond and his gun. “Speak. I want your name.”

“Q,” the boy said, watching him through saucer-like eyes, dark hair falling in them haphazardly. Bond raised an eyebrow. “It’s what they call me, I don’t know. Please, sir, please don’t leave me here, he’ll come back…”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “And ‘he’ is…?”

“You know who. You’re here to… to…”

“Kill him, yes,” Bond said simply. “I’m debating killing you, too.”

Q did precisely the opposite of what Bond expected. He simply nodded, and murmured almost inaudibly “Loose ends”, before closing his eyes with a type of awful peace.

There was no way in hell Bond was leaving him.

Q let out a startled yelp as Bond reached for the cage door. “What…?”

“Don’t ask, just do exactly as I tell you,” Bond grunted, cursing himself for a fool as he hauled the freezing Omega out by the arm. “Wear this,” he continued, thrusting his jacket at the kid, “and follow me. Disobey any of my orders, and I leave you here, is that clear?”

Q’s jaw had set into a firm line, and he nodded sharply, his body vibrating like a tuning fork. “I can show you where he’ll be,” he pointed out, his tone that of someone bartering, and Bond couldn’t quite believe the brilliance – and damned cheek – of the kid.

“Go,” he ordered, and Q scurried forward, leading the way.

\---

The boy darted down corridors, Bond barely keeping pace; a vague thought occurred that Q – or whatever his full name was – could be lying to him.

Another glance at the deep bruises, hands and bars and pressure everywhere, and Bond discarded the thought quickly. Q was afraid, but not  _that_  afraid, not so afraid he would risk a definite chance of getting out.

Q gestured at the door in front of him. “Don’t leave me,” he murmured, lips fluttering with very little sound. “I won’t be difficult, I’ll disappear.”

“You’re bonded,” Bond reminded him.

“If you get me far enough away, he won’t be able to follow the scent trail,” Q pointed out, with borrowed bravery. “Yes?”

Bond nodded gravely. “I will do what I can,” he assured the omega. “Now – do you have somewhere to hide?”

“Do you have a gun?”

Bond didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “You can use one?”

Q had the gall to raise an imperious eyebrow. “I’ve made them, amended them, worked with them for years, and I intend to shoot my alpha if I get within range,” he said firmly. “Will that do?”

Bond handed over his secondary Glock wordlessly. “I won’t be looking out for you,” he warned.

“I know.”

Bond reached for the door handle, and slipped into the room.

The omega invisibly slid in behind him, demonstrating an almost frightening familiarity with the gun, eyes scanning the room from behind the shield of Bond’s body. “There,” he breathed, just as Bond’s eyes settled.

It was the scent, of course. The half-scent that lingered on Q’s skin, and that Bond could taste in the air; the alpha who had been hurting a boy who had never asked for this life, had never wanted this

A boy with a ferociously good aim, it seemed. Before Bond knew what was going on, Q had pulled the trigger, and the man in charge had fallen down dead.

The downside was that every other person in the building attacked in near-enough unison. That was definitely less enjoyable. As he had warned, Bond had no interest in protecting or guarding a young omega when he was busy defending his own life, but mercifully, the boy seemed to be doing absolutely fine on his own.

Q was hyperventilating slightly, and Bond had to admit: he was  _young_. Far, far too young.

“Are you alright?” he asked, a touch gruffly.

Q nodded uncertainly. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Letting me kill him.”

MI6 would have a field day, Bond mused, and looked the boy over. “Well. A promise is a promise. Keep up, and don’t get shot.”

Q nodded nervously, and followed Bond out.


	182. The Teacher!Silva Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uni!AU where James notices Q’s odd behaviours, Q being a younger student. When he follows him, he discovers he’s being forced into sexual activities with the computer programming teacher, Raoul Silva. – anon

Q was an exceptional entity in Cambridge; a first-year computer scientist, who seemed to skate through the work without effort, wiping the floor with his fellow students. About as socially adept as the rest of them, but a welcome addition to Bond’s life; he lived across the hall.

“Everything alright?”

The younger boy seemed to be having problems with an electric burner, something Bond couldn’t help but relate to. “They don’t heat evenly,” Q said, sounding somewhere between confused and actively upset. “How are you supposed to cook on uneven burners? This is why I have toast.”

“Man cannot live on toast alone,” Bond grinned, and swept in.

The moment he touched Q, the younger man flinched.

Both looked at one another for a long moment, Q’s eyes slightly wide but defensive all the same, daring Bond to ask.

Bond didn’t. He taught Q how to make a passable omelette on the burners, and left him alone.

It was midnight, stumbling home from another friend’s place, that he all but ran into Q. “’lo,” Bond said, a little slurred, but not drunk enough to miss the naked terror that sprung into Q’s eyes as somebody twice his size ran into him. “Come on. Have a drink.”

“I don’t drink,” Q said quietly, and tried to slide his way around Bond’s form. “I need sleep, James, sorry…”

“Coffee, then.”

“I drink tea,” Q replied, with a smile that came nowhere near his eyes. Bond could see the tiniest shake in his hand, the red rim of previous tears. “Sorry. I need… I have lectures in the morning. Drink some water.”

With that, Q slipped into his room, and Bond listened to the clunk of locks and the unmuffled hitches of breath as Q started to cry on the other side of the door. The soundproofing in the building was shit. Bond tried to listen, debated options.

He would deal with this when sober, he decided, and fell asleep after a litre of water, alarm set for eight.

-

The first thing was to find out what Q actually did with his days. Bond skipped lectures, and carefully – subtly – traced Q down to the computer department. He documented his behaviour, his reactions, and could see the way he seemed to die a little as he went into the computer labs.

It was a very, very long day. Bond took books and his laptop, did whatever work he could while waiting for Q’s re-emergence; he watched the lab empty after a couple of hours, and – to his confusion – realised he had lost Q.

Bond glanced in.

Q was speaking to the teacher, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, knuckles white gripping it and eyes cast firmly downwards. The teacher – bleach blond hair, a smile Bond distrusted – lifted Q’s chin with long fingers, a casual intimacy that Bond found rather alarming. Q cringed back slightly, Bond watching as his body arced back from contact.

It didn’t take much to work out, or – at the very least – give Bond some very concerning ideas.

He would find out.

\---

Q opened the door, faced with James Bond and a mug of what smelt suspiciously like tea. “… hello?” he asked, very tired. It had been a very long few days, and Bond – for all his wonderful traits – was not what Q needed when he had an ungodly amount of work to finish.

“You seemed upset last night,” Bond said smoothly, quietly noting the hesitation with which Q accepted his tea. “I just wanted to check you were alright.”

The boy shot him a small, playful smile. “How’s the hangover?”

“Have none,” Bond returned, with a smirk of his own. “And you’re changing the subject.”

“I’m fine,” Q said easily, and took a sip of the tea. “Erm… come in, if you want?”

Bond nodded his gratitude, and walked into Q’s rooms.

The first thing that struck him was that it was terrifyingly messy. Beyond messy, in fact; it was a little like a bomb had scattered computer wires across his floor and then knotted several dozen times, with some intermittent shreds of shrapnel. “Wow,” Bond commented lightly, teasingly.

Q blushed slightly. “Yeah, sorry for the mess,” he smiled awkwardly, fingers gripping his tea carefully.

“So what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Q replied firmly, his grip becoming a shadow tighter. “Drop it, please, I don’t appreciate being interrogated.”

Bond sighed slightly. “Your professor. Silva, yes?”

The immediate panic that sprung into Q’s eyes was utterly unmistakable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I hadn’t asked anything yet,” Bond pointed out gently. Q looked like he wanted to cry. “Q. What’s going on?”

Q’s jaw tightened slightly, eyes a little frantic. “Nothing. I just have a lot of work. He sets a lot, he, it’s work. University, we all get it a bit.”

“I’m not buying it.”

“I don’t care,” Q replied, his voice sharp enough to shatter. “Go away, please. Thank you for the tea, but just, go away.”

Bond could see him fracturing, and wondered if he was doing the wrong thing in pushing Q. The problem was that there was  _nothing_  Bond could do unless he knew for certain that something was wrong, and Q wasn’t damn well admitting it. “If he’s…”

“Out of my room.”

“Q, listen,” Bond said urgently, almost desperate; Q was breaking, handing the untouched tea back to Bond, hands icy cold as he pushed Bond towards the door. “You have to tell me. It won’t jeopardise your degree if he’s…”

“Yes, it will, now  _fuck off_.”

“So he  _is_ ….”

Q stilled inches from wrenching his door open. “Is  _what_?” he asked, breathtakingly aggressive.

Bond watched him, as neutral as he could manage. “You tell me,” he replied quietly. Q stared, with no apparent intention of speaking. “… but I’d guess he’s assaulting you in some way.”

For a long, dangerous moment, Q didn’t answer.

“If you tell anybody about this, I’ll cut your dick off,” he promised, without much enthusiasm, and stepped away from the door.

Bond just let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding, and listened.

\---

“… so yes, that just about covers things. Any questions?”

It was not often that Bond was rendered speechless with genuine rage. In fact, he could not recall a similar instance offhand.

The entire situation was beyond unbelievable. Q’s assessment grades and even aspects of future career being threatened on the understanding that he would engage sexually with his professor; Silva had assured him that he could (and indeed would) decimate Q’s future career prospects through well-placed data on a variety of imaginative sites, and Q wholeheartedly believed he could. Silva was a truly superb hacker, and falsifying information would not be a tremendous stretch.

Q had therefore done exactly as he was told. As far as Q was concerned, sex with him was a necessary sacrifice for the sake of his future life, and he couldn’t see a way around it for the life of him.

Bond was going to  _kill_  Silva for this.

Q shrugged apologetically, as Bond continued to stare, red haze blotting out rational thought for a brief moment. “So yes, you can see why I’m… I can’t do anything, so I get through uni and then it’s over, I just need to get through this…”

“That’s not good enough,” Bond snapped, and regretted doing so as Q flinched.

Bond let out a slow, controlled breath. Q watched him, motionless.

“There must be police, something…”

Q let out a slightly hysterical cackle. “He’ll have safeguards in place, you have  _no idea_  how good he is at these things; there will be remote access, a dormant programme, something.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Surely that’s a lot of effort for…”

“… not especially,” Q interjected. “He’s overqualified for teaching, I have no idea why he bothers – I think he works freelance on the side, I’ve seen his programmes, and they’re  _beautiful_.”

It was almost lovely, the way Q responded to the thought, with the bend of a smile and the slightest distance in his expression; however, knowing that it came from somebody as abhorrent as Silva was enough to make Bond near enough  _growl_  with anger.

Bond let out a slow breath. “Then we confront him.”

Q snorted. “No.”

“We have to.”

“ _I_  am the only person involved in this, and I make the decisions.”

“Forgive me, but I think your judgement may be a little off,” Bond spat, with more vitriol than he had originally intended.

Q tangibly stiffened. “Fuck you,” he said, clearly, crisply. “You have no right whatsoever to question my judgement when it pertains to  _my_  life and  _my_  future.”

Both were quiet for a moment. “You’re brilliant with computers, yes?”

Q nodded. He didn’t have the energy to be modest.

“Hack him back,” Bond said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. “Find what he has, and destroy all of it. You can do that, right?”

“… no,” Q said, but there was enough, a tinge of uncertainty that offered the faintest of possibilities, at least. Something. Anything.

It was a thought, certainly, Q considered.

He was  _considering_. It had been a long time, or certainly felt like it, since he had considered anything other than coping. Getting through days and dealing with it day by day by moment by day by week, and this was an  _option_.

Q fell into a chair – much to Bond’s alarm – and started to think.


End file.
